Edward: an Imperial's Story
by rford191
Summary: A comedy based on the Oblivion world and storyline, following Edward, a less than heroic protagonist, as he cowers, bumbles and stumbles his way through the many adventures that await
1. Chapter 1

Oh prison really, really sucks,  
I should be out making big bucks  
Instead I'm rotting in this stinking cell  
I just hope my bastard jailer rots in hell!  
-- Edward's Lament

Chapter One

Once upon a time, in a far away land, an Imperial named Edward lived in the Imperial Dungeon of the Imperial City. Edward was an average young man, with nothing outstanding about his background, family, life, or appearance. Indeed, he was _so_ ordinary that no one seemed to know anything about him, and he didn't remember anything about his past (at least, that was his story, and he was sticking to it). All he knew was that he was stuck in a jail cell -- and there, across from him, was another prisoner, taunting him. Edward didn't pay much attention to what was said, but he got the gist...the guards were going to torture and kill him, as that's all that happened to prisoners here.

"Funny," Edward thought, "this guy doesn't look like he's been tortured, and, unfortunately, he's still alive, and making a damn lot of noise, too..."

Just then, the distant clinking of armor came to the prisoners' ears.

"Aha, they're coming for you!" the annoying prisoner taunted.

Edward frowned. Maybe, just maybe, he might find out why he was here. It couldn't have been those loaves of bread, swiped from the King and Queen Tavern, could it? Nah, no one saw him, he was sure. What about that beggar...what was his name?...that he'd pickpocketed as he slept in the rain outside the chapel. No, surely, they wouldn't throw a respectable young man like him in prison over a slimy beggar, would they?

He waited, musing these things silently, as the noise grew louder, and then, to his surprise, a group of guards and a very well dressed man came into view. Edward's blue eyes sparkled as he saw the rich robes. "Those must be worth a fortune! And that amulet! I'll bet I could sell that for a lot!"

"Stand aside, prisoner!" an authoritative voice demanded. "Move to the end of the cell, and do not interfere!"

Edward hesitated, his eyes still fixed on the amulet.

"Now! Or we'll make you!" the voice commanded again.

Something in the tone caused Edward to draw his eyes away from the sparkling gem, and to the speaker. Jumping as he did so, he quickly complied; the speaker had been a less-than-friendly, armor clad, weapon wielding warrior, surrounded by two similarly attired, similarly armed, similarly disposed warriors. Edward tripped in his haste to oblige, but pulled himself up quickly. "Why certainly, milady! Happy to be of service!" he declared.

The warrior scoffed at him, and turned to the rich man. "The passage is here, my lord. I don't know why they put a prisoner in this cell; it is always supposed to be off limits."

The rich man seemed sullen, and did not speak.

"Come with us, my emperor; time is pressing!"

"Emperor!" Edward gasped.

"Why?" the Emperor asked, his tone melancholy. "It's no use...nothing is any use anymore."

The warriors exchanged glances, and the apparent leader spoke again. "My lord, let us get you to safety, where you may then contemplate the futility of existence in safety."

Edward hadn't paid much attention to this conversation, though, as he'd found his eyes returning to the amulet. "You know," he thought to himself, "I'll bet an emperor's amulet would sell for a fortune, even if that ruby _is_ fake!" He found himself licking his lips nervously. Here, merely an arm's length away, was probably his fortune made; but his arms were shackled, and three very unsympathetic guards stood between him and retirement.

The Emperor seemed to sense Edward's eyes on him, and he turned. The old man's eyes lit up. "You!" he whispered. "I've seen you in my dreams!"

Edward grimaced. "Sorry, but I don't swing that way."

The Emperor looked at him in puzzlement. "This is fate!" he said at last.

"Sorry," Edward said, stepping backwards. "Not interested." To himself, he wondered at the impertinence of this man. "And, really," he thought, "that's the worst line I've ever heard. '_I've seen you in my dream_s'...please!"

"But...the fate of the world rests in your hands! The gods have chosen you to save this empire!"

Edward blinked. He liked the sound of that, but he was still suspicious about the old man's motives. "How?"

"My sons are dead...my time in this life is at an end," the Emperor said.

"Oh, I see," Edward said, his manner suddenly very engaging and excited. "And you need a good, trustworthy soul to take over the empire after you...expire? And, of course, you recognize the very virtues and character you seek in me?"

The Emperor raised an eyebrow. "No...but I might need you to deliver a message for me, if I expire before I can deliver it myself."

Edward's jaw dropped. "A message? You think my virtues and character are only worthy of being a royal messenger?!"

"Well," the Emperor answered slowly, "not really...but, if my visions are right, you'll be the only one I have left to carry the message when the time comes, so I'll have to take a chance on you."

Edward frowned deeply at the old man. Of all the insolence!

"Are you interested?" the Emperor asked.

"Sorry, Mr. Kingy, but you can take your message and stick it up your..." Edward paused, seeing the warriors suddenly moving at him. "...mailbox?" he finished meekly.

The Emperor shrugged, and started to head down a passage that had, somehow, appeared in Edward's cell wall. "Ah well, suit yourself. Of course, it would have meant that you'd get out of prison, but..."

By now, the guards and emperor had disappeared around a bend in the passage, but Edward lost no time in taking to his heels after them, calling, "Wait! Wait, I've changed my mind!"


	2. Chapter 2

Warriors that come and go,  
Dead men that I don't know,  
Life is very strange indeed  
For a poor Imperial in need.  
-- Edward's Lament, Continued

Chapter Two

Edward caught up with the Emperor just in time to hear him declare, in very melancholy tones, "Woe, woe is me!"

"Yes, my lord," one of the guards said. "But, if you'll just come this way..."

"Ahh, but life is such a futile thing!" the Emperor continued to say.

"_What a whiner,_" Edward thought to himself. Aloud, however, he declared, "My lord, I changed my mind! I would be honored to deliver your message!"

"Life!" the Emperor declared. "What is life? This thing, that we love, that we cherish, that we fear so much to lose? What is life, after all?"

One of the guards cleared his throat. "My lord, if we could continue, so that you could contemplate life when yours is not imperiled?"

"This valley of woe, this plain of suffering, this mountain of worry, this world of trouble and hardship...why, why, _why_ do we hold it so dear? Why do we flee, as if staying and risking an end to it, life, would be such a terrible thing? Tell me that!"

The guards shifted their weight. "Well, my lord, the people need their Emperor!"

At this point, Edward tried to interpose, saying, "My lord, I will be your messenger!" But he was ignored.

"The people," the Emperor scoffed. "What are the people? A bunch of miscreants, peasants, low lives, thieves, murderers, prisoners, greedy priests, conniving noblemen, ambitious officials: riffraff, all of them!" He glanced at Edward. "Look you at this one, and see what I mean!"

Edward frowned, about to make some response, but just then a noise distracted all of their attention. Glancing toward it, Edward saw a trio of ferocious, grotesquely armored men who, apparently, spawned out of the thin air. The three warriors charged to meet the would-be assassins, while, in unison, the Emperor and the prisoner let loose a squeal of terror and ran to the furthest end of the room, where they cowered together.

They remained unmoving, their hands over their heads as they huddled, until the fighting stopped. Then they glanced up, to see three slain men in silk robes. "Divines Not-Quite-Almighty!" Edward shouted, staring at the three corpses. "Where did they come from? And where in Oblivion are the other guys?"

The guards stared at him with distaste, but made no response. "Come my lord," the leader declared, turning to the emperor.

The Emperor stood, and Edward marveled at the man's ability to go from cowering wreck to imperious leader in just a second or so. "That," he thought, "is a real leader! Someone who can adapt to the situation! Someone who-"

He was interrupted from his reverie by someone calling, "Prisoner!"

Edward looked up.

"If you're coming, let's go!" the guard called to him.

Edward nodded, and fell in line. But then he stopped as he caught site of the corpses, and a thought came to him. "You go on ahead of me," he declared. "I've got a cramp in my leg, and I don't want to slow you down or anything. I'll be along as soon as it's gone, but you need to get the emperor to safety!"

"Safety!" the Emperor exclaimed. "What is safety? Who is safe? And from what? Can we ever be safe? Can anyone ever be safe?"

The guards made no argument with Edward, but quietly, politely and respectfully herded the Emperor, who was still mulling the questions he'd posed, toward a distant passage.

Edward, his eyes gleaming, waited for them to go, and then, when they were out of sight, hurried to the corpses. Whoever these creatures were, their fine robes indicated that they were prestigious -- which meant that they probably carried something of value on their persons! With eager hands, Edward searched their pockets. However, much to his chagrin, he found nothing whatever. "Who in Mehrunes Dagon's name goes around dressed in silk from head to toe, but not carrying anything? Not even a single gold piece?" he wondered. "Worthless bastards...I'm glad you're dead..." Disgusted, he kicked the corpse nearest him and walked toward the passage that the Emperor had disappeared down, but then paused again. "Silk...silk is expensive!"

With this thought, he returned to the corpses and, with much difficulty, proceeded to strip them. Having completed this, he smiled at his handiwork. There, he'd collected three complete silk robes. "Now," he thought. "What am I going to do with them?" He looked at his own clothes, hoping to find a place to store them; but he was wearing typical prison clothes: dirty sack cloth and old sandals. He sighed. No pockets, no secret hiding places.

And then an idea hit him with a flash. Why should he wear dirty, smelly sack cloth, when right there was fine silk?? Smiling and humming to himself, he stripped off his old clothes -- with some difficulty, as he was still wearing his wrist irons -- and slipped into the red robe. Just because he thought it looked especially stylish, he slipped on the silk hood that matched the robe; then, with great joy, he found a compartment in his robe where he could stash the other two. "There," he thought to himself, "All done...now, where's a mirror?" He searched around for a mirror, but found none. "Maybe the Emperor has a mirror," he thought. With this in mind, and dressed in the silk robes of the assassins, he took off in the direction that the emperor had traveled.


	3. Chapter 3

An adventurer's life for me,  
Rats and goblins to flee!  
An adventurer's life for me,  
A hero I shall someday be!  
-- Excerpt from a childhood poem written by Edward

Chapter Three

Edward reached the door that the Emperor had disappeared into, only to find, to his great dismay, that it was locked. In a panic, he tried the handle again, and found that it was, indeed, fastened on the other side. Fear gripped him, and he began to run about the room wildly, calling for help.

He continued to circle the room screaming for several minutes, stopping only when he tripped over one of the corpses, who now lay in his underclothes staring at the ceiling with dead eyes. Something about this scene was so morbid that Edward pulled himself to his feet, more panicked than before, and ran straight for a hole in the wall that he had not previously noticed.

He didn't see where he was going, and barely noticed the strange goblins and giant rats around him as he plunged deeper and deeper into the musty cellar. He continued running, past chests and skeletons, until he reached an underground opening. He was arrested by the pungent odor of cooking rat, and he stopped running to seek the source; disgusting as it was, he was hungry!

He found a giant rat roasting on a spit, and quickly set about munching on the foul, furry thing. It was then that he noticed a basket of human skulls nearby.

Nearly choking on a mouthful of rat meat, Edward loosed another scream, and took to his heels again. He didn't bother to look where he was going, but ran blindly into whatever tunnel opened up before him. He didn't notice the ever increasing horde of goblins and rats that pursued him.

Finally, much to his relief, he saw the dank dirt of the cellar open into the paved stone of the secret passages that the emperor had traversed -- and, what's more, he heard the sound of the Emperor's voice.

"This flight is futile, I tell you, futile! We men are but doomed creatures, doomed at birth to die! What matters it, if today be the day? What matters it, if tomorrow be the day?"

Edward, pausing to regain his breath, suddenly was aware of the creatures on his tail. Screeching with horror, he took once more to his heels, crying, "Your Majesty, protect me!"

He burst into the tunnel, spotted the royal pack, and ran toward them, a hissing, spitting, cursing, furry mob hot on his heels. He ran toward the emperor, and somehow made it past the guards, who apparently couldn't make up their minds if they should attack the robed man or the horde of creatures he'd brought with him.

When the Emperor saw the goblins, rats and other creatures, he ran in the opposite direction; Edward, finding his Imperial shield gone, took off after him. The guards, meanwhile, were already engaged in combat with the creatures, and only heard the frightened shrieks of the two men as they ran down the passage.

Finally, coming to a dead end, the Emperor stopped to look about him. Seeing Edward, his eyes widened with horror. "Assassin!" he screeched, pointing his finger at him.

Edward screamed out loud, and ran to hide behind the Emperor, assuming that the other man had meant that there'd been an assassin behind him. The Emperor let out a terrified yelp at his advance, and threw up his hands defensively. This move surprised Edward, and he glanced over his shoulder. Realizing that there was no one there, and that it was him, Edward, that the Emperor had cowered from, he asked in amazement, "Don't you recognize me, Your Majesty? I'm not an assassin, I'm your messenger, Edward!"

The Emperor peered at him suspiciously, but half raised himself from his frightened crouch. "But...but you're wearing the assassin's robes!"

Edward glanced down at his clothes. "Me? Oh, no, I'm just wearing one of those beautiful silk robes..." he trailed off, his face turning ashen. "You mean...those dead guys..._they _were assassins?" he asked, comprehending at last.

The Emperor nodded. "Of course...what did you think they were? I don't just keep corpses in my secret passages, you know."

"Yes," Edward said, "but what happened? They had been wearing such scary armor, not these expensive robes!"

The Emperor looked at him quizzically for a moment, and then sighed, as if annoyed by his stupidity. "It was magic! They're Mythic Dawn mages, who can spawn their own armor!"

Edward gaped. "You mean, I looted the corpses of _magic _dead guys?"


	4. Chapter 4

He spoke of fate and dreams,  
But I've got other schemes.  
The empire may go to hell,  
As long as I make out well.  
-- Edward's Musings

Chapter Four

The Emperor raised an eyebrow, but Edward didn't make any clarification. He stood, frozen in place, and then began to scream shrilly. There, from out of the wall right behind the Emperor _another_ one of the Mythic Dawn warriors had spawned. "_Great Divines_," Edward's panicked mind thought, "he heard me! He's coming to get me!"

Still screaming, he watched as the grotesquely armored warrior brought a heavy mace down on the emperor's head, and then rushed forward. Edward closed his eyes, but, to his amazement, the blow did not land; instead, he felt a rush of wind as the assassin raced past him, and heard the sounds of footsteps receding down the passage. He also heard something that sounded like, "Come on, get to work!"

Opening his eyes, he turned to see a clash of armor in the far end of the tunnel. For a moment, he wondered why the mythic dawn assassin hadn't attacked him, but then surmised that it must have been because he thought he'd have an easier time taking on the imperial guards. He smiled to himself, and then turned to the emperor.

His smile vanished as he saw the older man lying on the floor in a pool of blood, the mace still stuck in his skull. Wincing, Edward stepped forward to remove the mace. "That's just undignified," he thought to himself, "to have a mace sticking out of the back of your skull, particularly if you're an emperor or king or whatever..." He stared at the mace strangely as he touched it, sensing -- though he wasn't quite sure how -- the weapon's name. "Emo's Bane?" he thought. "That's a strange name for something..."

He laid the mace down beside the emperor, and, respectfully, pulled his own hood back; it was the closest he could do to removing his hat, after all. Then he turned the emperor's corpse over. He sighed. "Well, you were an arrogant thing, but you sure knew how to act like a king...or emperor, or whatever," he eulogized, his voice laden with great emotion.

All at once, a gleam appeared in his eye. He was staring at the amulet that hung about the Emperor's neck. He glanced about him quickly. He could see the guards -- they were busy fighting the assassin. Quickly, deftly, he reached for the amulet; seizing it, he pulled it from the emperor's corpse and held it up to the torchlight to examine it. He licked his lips excitedly. "That's got to be real!" he thought. "And it's the biggest ruby I've ever seen! Plus it's set in gold!! Ohhh, it's going to bring me a fortune!!"

He was busily calculating how much the amulet might be pawned for when he heard the clatter of armor in the passage. Glancing up, he saw an imperial guard returning; he stashed the amulet in the folds of his robe quickly, and turned to face him. "The Emperor is dead!" he cried. "One of those dirty assassins murdered him! I tried to stop them, but he was too quick for me! He shoved me aside, and managed to get the Emperor; and then he fled into the passage, leaving me to attend our poor sovereign!"

The guard eyed him with suspicion and grief, and turned to kneel beside the emperor. All at once, he started, and glared at Edward. "The amulet! Where is it, you sneaking turd?"

Edward started too, surprised that the guard had even noticed that the amulet was missing. Surely it was just one of many royal trinkets? "He...uhhh...he gave it to me!" he managed to respond.

"Gave it to you?" the guard asked, clearly taken aback. "Why?"

Edward blinked at the question, but thought quickly. "For...safekeeping?"

The guard growled, as if unsatisfied with the answer. "Well..." he said at last, "he did seem to trust you...at least, as a last resort."

Edward frowned, but thought it better not to pick a fight with this heavily armored, extremely proficient warrior. "Yes, quite so," he said instead.

"And," the guard replied, "I suppose this might have been the message he meant you to carry...after all, I can't carry it because I have to tend to his body."

"Yes, exactly!" Edward declared, pressing his advantage.

"And you know where to take it?" the guard wondered, his eyes coloring with suspicion.

"Of course!" Edward snapped back, feigning annoyance. "But don't expect me to tell you -- the Emperor made no mention of trusting you with the secret!"

"Me?" the guard erupted. "Of course the Emperor trusts me! I knew about getting the amulet to Friar Jauffre long ago! It's you _I_ wonder about!"

Edward blinked. Was there really some plan to deliver his treasure to someone, or was this a trap? "Say what you want," he said at last, "but I will not discuss the matter with you, as the Emperor swore me to secrecy!" _Perfect!_ he thought. _Secrecy means I can't deny it or confirm it. Genius!_

"Well," the other man growled, "you just see that you get it there...the fate of the entire empire rests in your grubby mitts! And, as far as I'm concerned, you're probably just as liable to pawn the bloody thing off for a few gold as to deliver and save the empire..."

Edward stared blankly at the man, amazed by his powers of perception. At last, however, he roused himself, and sniffed, "Say what you will. As I said, I will not discuss it with the likes of you!"

The guard rolled his eyes, and said, "Alright, then, get on with it!"

Edward stood, and cringed as the Emperor -- who had still been resting on his legs -- crashed to the floor. Clearing his throat, he glanced at around at him, ignoring the guard's glare. "Yes, well..." He frowned, and began to walk about the room looking for an exit. He tried to carry himself with a knowing air, but rightly imagined that he failed, and that his bewilderment showed. Finally, in desperation, he turned to the guard. "How do I get out of here?" he asked.

The other man rolled his eyes, but stood and walked to the wall. Pushing what seemed to be just another rock, but what was apparently a lever of some sort, the guard opened a passage in the wall. Edward cringed as he realized that this was the same one that the assassin had stepped out of. "You don't suppose...well, you don't suppose you could accompany me, just to make sure that nothing happened to me? I mean, so that the Emperor's last wish could be carried out and all that?" he asked.

The guard just glared at him, and declared, "You can take care of yourself. I must tend to the Emperor's body."

Wrinkling his nose in distaste at the guard, Edward gingerly stepped into the narrow passage.


	5. Chapter 5

Before my death they called me an emo,  
But those fools didn't know what I know.  
You can bet they too would be depressed  
If they knew in whose hands the fate of the empire rests.  
-- Emperor Uriel Septim

Chapter Five

Edward growled as he stepped into the sunlight. To any observer, that might have been a strange reaction for a man who had just stepped out of a sewer pipe; but, had that observer known the reason, he might have been more sympathetic. Or, he might just have laughed heartily. But, whether falling into and nearly drowning in rivers of septic waste, being chased by giant crabs, gnawed on by enormous rats, beaten senseless by headless zombies, bitten mercilessly by humongous slaughterfish and cussed at by one very foul tempered (and mouthed) urchin who'd made the sewers his home is a matter to laugh about or sympathize over, such was Edward's ordeal. And so it was that, when he emerged -- stinking of sewerage, covered in rat and fish bites, bruised and bloody from his beatings, and smarting inwardly at the urchin's insults -- he was _not _baby faced, and he most certainly did not look like a girl! -- he growled at the sun, cursed the dead emperor, wished he could strangle that blasted guard, and finally swore at anything and everything about him. Then, and only then, did he plunge into the river to rinse some, at least, of the stinking sewerage from his body.

Swimming to the shore opposite him, gasping for breath, he managed to pull his dripping body out of the lake. "Great Divines!" he cursed. "Who knew swimming in an ankle-length robe could be so damned difficult?!" He squeezed and wrung the robe out as best as he was able, and then sighed and resigned himself to walking about in soggy clothes.

A sudden thought struck him. "I wonder if being soaked in sewerage will bring the value of these robes down?" He frowned. "Maybe I can just wash them really well." He glanced around him, and his eye caught sight of a flower. "Perfect!" he thought. "Flowers! Flowers smell nice! After I wash them, I can soak them in water and flowers, so the sewerage smell will be drowned by pretty flower smells!" Smiling to himself at his diabolical cleverness, he set about picking all the flowers he saw. How long he spent thus engaged he wasn't sure, but, when he glanced up, he noticed that the sun was setting. At the same time, he heard his stomach growl, and felt just how very uncomfortable he was in the heavy wet clothes. "Damn it!" he thought. "I need to get to somewhere where I can dry off, eat something and sleep in a nice, warm bed!"

Glancing about, he realized that the shore he'd swum to after exiting the sewer was actually the shore of an island, and that he'd have to jump back in the river to get anywhere at all. Sighing and cursing all at the same time, he braced mentally, and then plunged into the water once more, this time heading back to the Imperial City's shore -- the same shore he'd originally come from.

Sputtering, gasping, swearing and praying, Edward was finally, barely, able to make it to the shore. He straightened himself up, still gasping for breath, and glanced behind him at the island. To his horror, he saw a floating trail of flowers -- his flowers! -- in his wake. He collapsed to the beach as he realized that the flowers he'd spent so long collecting had all, somehow, floated out of his robe.

Then, a feeling of terror gripping him, he searched the drenched folds of his robe for the emperor's amulet. At first he found only a few petals here and there -- the remnants of his magnificent botanic enterprise -- but, at last, he found the ruby amulet. Deciding that the safest thing he could possibly do was wear the amulet -- that way he'd always know right where it was -- he slipped it over his neck. For a moment, the loss of his flowers, the nearly drowning in the river and, before that, sewage, and all the trials of the day were lost as he reflected that he, Edward the Imperial, was wearing an amulet that had, only hours before, belonged to the Emperor. "The now dead Emperor," he thought, and the idea suddenly lost some of its appeal.

Sighing, he surveyed the absurd almost cliff-like mountain that he'd have to scale to reach the Imperial City. But, being the courageous adventurer that he was...well, actually, being half starved, very uncomfortable and starting to get rather chilly...he set about climbing the steep mountainside.

It was not long, however, before he discovered that -- if it was possible -- climbing in heavy, wet robes was actually more difficult than swimming in them. More than that, but the ankle length skirt of the robe, and the large sleeves, continually got caught in the bushes, crags and apparently everywhere else, so that he kept falling, tripping, and picking himself up to start over again. Forty-five minutes later, and only a little way up the mountainside -- but very scratched, tired and angry -- Edward paused for a rest. He was panting heavily -- so heavily that he thought his lungs might explode -- and the sun was disappearing very quickly. By the meager light that was left, he surveyed his robe. He was dismayed to find that, not only had the robe he was wearing, but the others too, been quite shredded. "I'll never be able to sell these!" he mourned. "No one will buy them!" He paused, a thought coming to him. "Well, maybe a beggar...after all, they're about as torn as the crap that they wear, but these are real silk!" Then another idea came to him. "But...will a beggar be able to afford them?" He scowled. Beggars always looked so scraggly and starved that he doubted they'd have the money for a new set of clothes, even if they were sewerage scented silk.

He glanced upward, at the summit which he had yet to conquer, and then came to a resolution. "To oblivion with it," he declared, stripping off the stinking, soggy silk, and watching with satisfaction as the bundle of fabric slid down the hill face.

And then he felt the night air assault his body, which, save for his underpants and the amulet, was bare. Scrambling quickly, he managed to scale the remainder of the cliff in what must have been record time.  
So it was that a shivering, scratched, scarred, and bruised man, wearing only a loincloth and an expensive amulet, walked into the Imperial City some half an hour later.


	6. Chapter 6

A friend in need may be a friend indeed,  
But a good plan when in need is good indeed!  
-- An old saying, Edward-ized

Chapter Six

Imperial Guard stared across the street at his brother, Imperial Guard. The Guard family was a huge one, going back generations, to the founding of the empire; and, since the appointment of the first Guard as an imperial guard, it was rather a joke in the family to name every son Imperial. Thus it was that guards named Imperial Guard could be found at every gate and patrolling the city.

Imperial shook his head, gesturing at the scraggly, stinking creature that passed between them. He reeked of something awful (what was that smell??), and was completely naked, except for a fancy necklace and a loin cloth. Imperial -- across the street -- shook his head back. The stinky man approached the first Guard, and asked, "Excuse me, could you give me directions?"

Imperial held his nose, and replied, "Yesh."

The bruised man frowned at him, but said, "Where is the nearest inn?" Imperial just pointed with his free hand. The man nodded and set off.

The man was, of course, Edward, whose adventures we've followed thus far; and, now that he knew where to find shelter, he walked in the direction that Mr. Guard had indicated with a lighter step. At least, he _would _have walked with a lighter step had he been able, because his bare feet were scratched and bleeding after the exhausting climb up the cliff face -- not to mention the hectic escape from prison a few hours earlier. At last, he caught sight of the Tiber Septim hotel. "Oh," he breathed, "thank divines!" The city was a big one, and he was not familiar with all of it; he was glad he had asked directions -- otherwise, he might have spent hours wandering about, searching for shelter.

He pushed open the door, and practically fell inside. An unattractive Imperial glanced up at him, and her expression changed to one of muted shock. "Can I help you...?" she asked hesitantly.

"Who are you?" he asked.

"Augusta Calidia," she answered. "I own this hotel."

"Then, yes, you can help me," he answered. "I need a room. And a meal."

"I see," she replied. "Well, I have food for sale -- you can check out my inventory and decide, and then we'll discuss prices -- and a room for 40 gold per night."

"40 gold?!" Edward demanded, his tone reaching a pitch that he did not think possible. A dozen or so heads turned to him, and expressed the same surprise that Miss Calidia had shown upon his entrance.

"That's right," she answered.

Edward scowled. "But I've only got..." He reached down, to check his pockets, and then remembered that he had neither pockets nor gold pieces -- nor even clothes, for that matter. "Nothing," he finished.

She shrugged. "Well, that's your problem."

His scowl deepened. "Look, surely we can barter!" he declared.

She surveyed the amulet he wore. "Well," she said. "That's probably not worth 40 gold, but I'll let you have the room for it."

He drew back, aghast. "My amulet? Are you mad?? This is pure gold, and one of the finest rubies ever discovered by man!"

She rolled her eyes, saying only, "Sure...not cheap costume jewelry..."

"No!" he shouted, "Not cheap costume jewelry!" She rolled her eyes again. "Look, if you won't give me what my amulet is worth, maybe..." He had been thinking of trading his silk robes, but suddenly remembered that he'd thrown them away. For half a moment, he considered just giving her the amulet, as long as he'd be able to climb into a warm bed; but then he decided to take a different track. "Maybe you could take pity on me?" he asked at last. "I lost everything in my fight to save the emperor!"

This statement drew a few gasps.

"Yes!" he exclaimed, noting her disbelieving expression. "It's true! I was part of his escort this morning, and we were besieged! Fifty assassins came after us; they ambushed us! There were only four of us, but, oh, how we fought! We fought, and fought, but they kept coming! First they got old..." he paused for a second, to think of a name. "Old Garrett!" he decided at last. "Yes, first they got old Garrett. And then they took...Matilda. And then there were just the two of us -- just the two of us!" His voice broke, and, somehow, he managed to fill his eyes with tears. "And still they came! We each took a side of the emperor, me in the front where they were the thickest, and him in the back. Then he came -- the assassin with the mace! I tackled him, and wrestled with him; oh, how long did we struggle? I don't even know! But someone came up behind me, and smashed me over the skull. And then, when I woke up, the Emperor was dead. Oh!" He broke off again. "Dead!" He fell forward onto the counter, sobbing. "I had failed! Failed! Divines forgive me, I failed him!"

A dozen sympathetic voices hurried to assure Edward as he sobbed, telling him that he had not failed and that he had tried his hardest; they had all heard the story the remaining guard had told, and this one seemed to fit the tale, roughly anyway.

"You're right," Edward said, looking up at Augusta as he pushed the sympathizers away. "I don't deserve mercy! I deserve scorn, loathing, mercilessness, contempt! Heap it on me! I should starve, and freeze in the elements, after what I have done!" He continued to sob miserably as he spoke.

His words evoked much renewed sympathy, and all at once people were collecting money, and forcing it upon him; Augusta, perhaps believing his story, perhaps shamed by those who did, assured him that he could eat and stay for free. "And I'll see if I can find any clothes that might fit you," she declared, glancing at him with a still discernible degree of reproach.


	7. Chapter 7

The hands of fate were set in motion,  
What was to be would be  
Despite the messenger's lack of devotion  
For the gods favored me.  
-- The Scripture of the 9 minus 8

Chapter Seven

Edward had spent a mostly restful night -- once he finally managed to get to sleep, after eating until the point that every moment induced a panic attack and he feared that he might explode. Augusta was able locate a set of clothes that another visitor had left behind him, and they fit tolerably well; nonetheless, Edward understood why the other visitor had left them behind. They were not comfortable, and were very worn and shabby. "Still," he thought as he put them on, "they're better than running around in a loin cloth...plus, they keep my amulet hidden; and I don't want to walk around showing this thing off to any potential thieves!"

But there were more advantages to the clothes, as Edward soon discovered. When Augusta brought him an extremely generous breakfast, he proceeded to conceal it all in his clothes; when she returned, she was surprised to see that he had eaten it all, but asked if he wanted seconds; he immediately agreed. He repeated this procedure two more times -- until there was nowhere left to store the food, and Augusta had grown too suspicious. Then he ate an inordinate amount, and thanked his gullible hostess. His pockets full of cold hard cash (literally, as this cash was the golden coin variety), compliments of his audience the night before, Edward left the Tiber Septim hotel.

Now that his pockets were full, he was not desperate to find a pawnshop; after all, he could barter with a few pawnbrokers, until he found a good deal. With this idea in mind, Edward stopped a guard, got directions, and then headed for the Market District.

It took awhile, but, after a few wrong turns, a few times retracing his steps, and a few more times of asking directions from men named Imperial Guard, Edward at last made his way into the Market District. He was sweaty and a bit irritable, as the morning was a hot one and his journey thus far had tired him, but, as he surveyed the streets lined with shops, he licked his lips excitedly. Soon, he would have more money in his pockets than he'd ever held! The Emperor's amulet would make him a rich man, and he could retire in style! Or, he thought, maybe he could start a business. "Hmm...that's a good idea...but what kind of business?" He pondered this for a few moments, and then an even more appealing idea struck him. "A crime syndicate!" he thought. "With this money, I could hire some thugs, and we could carry out some minor crimes around the Imperial City. Small time robberies, and that sort of stuff. And then, once we established ourselves, we could move on to the bigger things...major heists...large scale robberies...coordinated operations conducted by a gang of super criminals!" His eyes were positively glistening with the possibilities, and he was licking his lips excitedly, when he felt a suspicious pull at his pocket.

Spinning around, his dreams of the crimes he might commit were interrupted as he found himself the victim of an attempted crime. A dirty, emaciated beggar was quickly retracting her hand, pulling it away from his pocket. "Why, how dare you?!" he demanded. "Of all the nerve, you filthy little thief! How dare you steal from me?"

The beggar scurried to move away quickly, but he put out a hand to restrain her. "Not so fast, you treacherous little filcher! Who are you?"

"Simplicia, sir," she replied, "and I wasn't trying to steal from you, honest!"

"Oh, yes? Then what were you trying to do?"

She stammered for a few moments, but finally responded, "Well, sir, to get your attention!"

"Why?"

"To beg for a coin. You see, I'm so hungry." She paused. "You wouldn't be willing to spare a coin for the infirm, would you, good sir?" she asked.

This was the final straw for Edward, who immediately called out, "Guards! Guards, we've got a pickpocket here!"

"No, no, good sir!" Simplicia pleaded, grasping his coat. "Please, don't call the guards!

Edward furiously swatted her away. "Let go of me!" he demanded, still calling, "Guards, guards!"

But Simplicia did not loose her grip, and instead renewed her pleading, "Oh, sir, please, please don't call the guards!! Please!"

Her behavior only infuriated Edward further, and he shoved her away with all his might, saying, "Get away from me, cur!" He turned to call for the guards again, but stopped as he heard a strange, almost sickening thud. Slowly, almost fearfully, he looked at the beggar.

His face went ashen as he saw the motionless body of the woman, her head resting on the base of a stone pillar. He threw a furtive glance about him, relieved to see that no one was about; and then a strange, rustling sound came to his ears, and he heard an eerie voice whisper, "Your action has been observed by forces unknown..."

Loosing a scream of terror, Edward ran from the spot.


	8. Chapter 8

In a shocking occurrence, the well-known Market City district beggar, Simplicia (known as "the Slow") was found dead. The cause of death was determined to be an accidental fall, and a blow to the back of the head resulting from said fall. In a strange turn of events, however, a plentiful trail of gold and food was found leading up to the poor woman's corpse. According to an anonymous priest from the temple, this miraculous occurrence was a gift of benevolence from the 8 plus 1, which is to say, The Nine, to thank the good folks of the Imperial City for their kindness to the poor woman in life.  
-- Black Horse Courier, Special News Bulletin

Chapter Eight

Edward ran, and ran, and ran, and then ran some more. Finally, he found himself outside the walls of the Imperial City. He collapsed against the stone wall, panting so heavily that he thought his lungs would rend. He was shaking with exhaustion, but, even if he hadn't been exhausted, he would still have been shaking from nerves. He had killed someone! Not that that was such a bad thing, but he had done it in broad daylight! What was worse, someone had caught him. He didn't know who, but he had heard that creepy voice whispering in his ears. He shivered.

What was he going to do? The Imperial Guards would be coming after him soon enough, he was certain. Surely, they would put a bounty on his head; then what?

Still shaking with exhaustion and nerves, he glanced around him. His eyes lit up. There, a little ways away from him, was a stable! Picking himself up, and steadying himself on shaking legs, he walked over to inquire about purchasing a horse. A not-entirely-friendly looking orc, whose name, if the sign at the door was any indication, was Snak gra-Bura, met him. "Excuse me," he said, "but I'd like to purchase one of your horses."

The orc grunted. "For how much?"

"Well..." Edward started, shifting his weight. He wondered for a moment if he could pull his "emperor's guard" bit with her, but, staring into her steely eyes, quickly decided against it. Instead he reached into his pocket to count his gold coins. Much to his horror, he could only find a small handful; and, what's more, he couldn't find most of the food he'd concealed earlier, either. He looked around him in shock and dismay, as if hoping to ascertain the answer to where his goods had gone. Surely the dead beggar woman had not snatched them all? But how else could he have lost them? Had he dropped them while fleeing? He cringed at the thought. He knew that, on occasion, when he was very frightened, he tended to leave a "trail" behind him as he fled, of whatever he was carrying.

"How much?" the orc repeated.

"Umm...twenty-five gold?" Edward asked, counting his remaining gold pieces.

Snak gra-Bura began laughing so hard that Edward thought -- hoped -- she would die. Unfortunately, in his opinion, she did not; instead, when she finally finished, she told him, "Unlikely, mister. I don't sell many horses anyway, and certainly not for 25 gold!" Turning, she started to walk away, laughing anew as she did so.

Feeling his anger rising inside him, Edward glanced about for something -- anything! -- to hit this woman with. His eyes lit upon a wooden chair, and, fury spurring him onward, he seized it and hoisted it above his head. Then, with a heavy thump, he brought it down on the woman's skull. The sneering laughter stopped, but, to his dismay, so too did the woman's standing, and consciousness.

"Oh no!" he thought. "I've killed her too!" But then he noticed that, though she lay unmoving, she still breathed. Collapsing beside her with relief, Edward sat still for several moments; but then his reason returned. What, after all, was he doing sitting here, when such an opportunity presented itself?!

Grabbing Snak's purse, Edward sprinted to the corral. Climbing, with no little difficulty, over the fence, Edward grabbed the first horse he came to -- an ornery, frail looking nag.

After a few failed attempts, Edward successfully mounted the horse; then, tugging on the reins, he managed to bump into another horse, knock down part of the corral fence, take out one of the posts supporting the stable, and then, finally, get out of the enclosure. Smiling at his success, Edward spurred the creature onward; well, not spurred so much as feebly coaxed, then angrily coaxed, and finally savagely kicked the animal onward.

At this final prodding, the horse took off at a fast pace; so fast, in fact, that Edward had to cling on for dear life, screaming shrilly as the animal thundered blindly onward.


	9. Chapter 9

We thought god-hood would shut him up,  
But it seems his whining just will not stop.  
To hell with this damnable fool,  
We should've given his assassins his rule!  
-- The Scripture of the 8, speaking of the 9th

Chapter Nine

Edward wasn't sure how long he'd ridden, but when, finally, his horse stopped, he practically leaped off its back; which is to say, he _would _have _leaped_, if his aching legs didn't hurt so bad. Instead, he half stumbled, half crawled away from the animal, sure that the inside of his thighs were all gone after that ride. The truth was, Edward wasn't much of a horseman; indeed, Edward wasn't a horseman at all. This had, in fact, been his first time riding a horse -- and, if this experience was anything to go by, he was determined that it would be his last!

Whining and dragging himself along in what would have made an outstanding audition for the part of Gollum in the Lord of the Rings, Edward crawled to a tree, sat with his back to it, and cursed his horse. When, finally, he'd exhausted his extensive vocabulary of swear words at the seemingly unconcerned nag, he looked about him.

He had no idea where he was, and could find no clues in his surroundings. They were on a sparsely wooded hillside, with only more hillside, trees and flowering plants in sight. His horse, apparently, had long ago veered off the road, because that, too, was nowhere to be seen.

Wearily, desperately, Edward consulted his map. He wasn't sure how he'd gotten a map, but, apparently, it had been in his pocket, unnoticed, until now. He looked at the parchment with heavy, despairing eyes. He saw the mark representing the stable from where he'd stolen his horse, yet not only did he have no idea how many leagues they'd covered since, but he didn't even know what direction they'd gone! Shoving the map back into his pocket, Edward felt a deep sense of despair settle over him. Tears filling his eyes, he angrily renewed his verbal assault on the complacent horse, who had set about grazing and ignoring the young man.

He raged for several minutes, until, finally, exhausted, he closed his eyes, leaned back against the tree, and just began to sob.

Several hours later, he woke, realizing that, somehow, he had fallen asleep.

"You sleep soundly for a murderer," an eerie voice declared.

With a shrill scream, Edward jumped to his feet. Then, the sudden movement reawakening the pain of saddle soreness, he groaned, crippling over in agony. Finally, gritting his teeth to overcome the pain, he looked up. There, before him, stood a black robed man. Edward gasped. "Who are you?!" he asked.

"I'm Lucien Lachance," he said. "I'm a speaker for the Dark Brotherhood."

"The Dark Brotherhood?" Edward repeated. He had no idea what or who that was, but there was something catching about the name. "Too bad this guy is already using it," he thought. "It would make a good name for my syndicate!"

"Yes," Lucien breathed, obviously savoring just speaking of the Brotherhood. "The Dark Brotherhood. A group of like-minded professionals who serve the Night Mother."

Edward raised an eyebrow. Night mother? "What, are you people some sort of prostitute veneration group, or something of that ilk?" he asked.

Lucien's eyes nearly bulged out of his head. "NO!" he roared. "The Night Mother is our beloved mother, who serves the Dark Father, Sithis!"

Edward stared at him. He wasn't quite sure what this strange man was saying, but it sounded too bizarre for him. "Yes, well, I don't know..."

"We are a group of assassins!" Lucien spit out at him.

"Ohhh...." Edward said. "Not prostitutes?"

"NO!!" Lucien repeated.

"I see...assassins, eh?" Edward repeated. He liked the idea; he could see himself as a cold, ruthless, cunning assassin, deciding the fate of gangs and gang leaders, guilds and guild leaders, maybe even kings and empires -- and collecting a nice, fat paycheck of delicious blood money for doing it! "Now, how does one go about becoming a member of the Brotherhood?" he asked.

Lucien smiled. "That's the spirit!" he said, and then hesitated. For a fleeting moment, Edward had the unpleasant sensation that this man doubted his abilities. "But..." Lucien said slowly, "maybe I should...yes, I will tell you more later. But first, you need to prove your...loyalty...to the Brotherhood."

"Oh? How?"

"There is an old man," Lucien said, "who lives now at the Inn of Ill Omen. His name is Rufio. You must kill him. Then, travel to Cheydinhal. You will find an abandoned home there; rest inside. We will monitor the home for three days; if we see you return within that time, we will contact you. Otherwise, we will assume that you failed your quest or have decided against joining our illustrious band."

"Failed??" Edward repeated, his voice vexed. "Didn't you say he's an old man?"

Lucien nodded. "Old, but not unskilled."

"Bah!" Edward spat. "I'm insulted that you'd give me such a trivial task -- taking out an old, feeble man. I should not even accept!"

Lucien shrugged. "Well, have it your way..."

"But I do!" Edward hastened to add. "Just so that I can show you how easy it was."

Lucien cleared his throat, and said, "Well, alright then. Maybe we'll see you in three days?"

"Of course you will!" Edward snapped. "You'll see me a lot sooner than that, as a matter of fact!"

Lucien nodded. "Very well. Then, I shall depart."

"And good riddance," Edward muttered to himself as he saw the strange man cast an invisibility spell and vanish before his very eyes. He shivered, suddenly forgetting his anger. He'd never seen someone completely disappear before, and it was a creepy sight. He glanced about him, trying to see anything that might give away Lucien's whereabouts; but he could find no evidence of him anywhere, not so much as a footprint. Then, panic struck again. "Wait a minute! Nevermind where _he _is...where am I??" he thought, as he realized that he still had no idea where he was, and he'd let possibly the only other human being in the area get away without asking for directions.


	10. Chapter 10

Shocking assault and theft!  
It is with difficulty that this agent of the Black Horse Courier finds the words to describe the latest outrage in the Imperial City. But, midday yesterday, the well-known manager of Chestnut Handy Stables reported that someone had attacked her, stolen a horse, and destroyed much of the stable. Ms. gra-Bura could not recall the attacker clearly, as she had not paid him much attention; his outstanding characteristic was that he appeared, in her words, "mouse like" and "weak".  
It is the opinion of the city watch that the attacker is a madman, as the wanton destruction and the theft of the oldest and sickliest of Ms. gra-Bura's stock point to a mind imbalanced. The watch advises all citizens to avoid any strange person exhibiting peculiar behaviors, and contact the nearest Guard.  
-- Black Horse Courier, Special News Bulletin

Chapter Ten

Edward had been riding for a long time. By now, he had grown numb to the pain, and was simply letting his horse go in whatever direction she felt like going. She, in her turn, was going very slowly, pausing to eat here, drink from the occasional stream, and generally make a leisurely day of it.

Edward had come to the conclusion that, either his horse would lead him to civilization, or he would starve to death in the woods; and Edward had very little faith in his sluggish horse.

This not being a very cheery conclusion, he tried to think of other things; inevitably, however, his mind came to food. He'd already eaten everything that remained of his stash. And, just as inevitably, his mind would go from food to lack of food, and starvation; and then, from starvation to death; and from death to being eaten by the wolves and crows; and, from the wolves and crows eating him, to food; and so the cycle would begin again.

Somehow -- he wasn't sure how, exactly -- he'd fallen asleep when, suddenly, his mount stopped. So suddenly, in fact, that he went flying over her head, to land face first on the cobblestone path in front of him. Standing, spitting out a mouthful of blood and cursing, Edward turned furiously to face the horse. Then he stopped. "Cobblestone?" he thought. "And a building! Where am I??" Facing the building, he read the sign. "Inn of Ill Omen." He nearly fell backwards in surprise. Was he dreaming? No, the blood in his mouth tasted too real to be a dream; anyway, who dreams about being thrown from a horse and waking up with a bloody mouth?? "But how, how, could this worthless horse have possibly found the inn??" he wondered.

He shrugged. It didn't matter. After all, it meant he wouldn't be starving to death, and his shriveled remains wouldn't end up wolf or crow food. This thought filled him with so much joy that he turned, seized the horse's face, and kissed it. Neighing furiously, the horse reared up on its hind legs, and brought her hooves dangerously close to Edward's face before crashing to a stand, and shaking her mane to display her disgust at his kiss.

Edward, pale as a ghost at his near encounter with death, understood perfectly, and backed away from his ornery horse. Apparently, having done her job, the creature wanted nothing more to do with him. Edward, wondering how a strong urine odor had suddenly assailed his nostrils, pondered why he seemed to have that effect on people and animals: the more they knew him, the less they wanted to do with him.

Sighing, he pushed open the door. The inn was poorly lit, and there were only two of them in sight; although one was male, neither was old or feeble looking. "Excuse me," Edward said, addressing himself to the man. "Are you the innkeeper?"

"I am," the innkeeper replied, wrinkling his nose and glancing about. "Are you interested in a room?"

"Yes," Edward said, "but not until I meet with someone."

The innkeeper nodded, now pinching his nostrils. "Perhaps you'd like to take a bath first, though, sir?"

Edward stared at him, a puzzled expression on his face. "I beg your pardon?"

"Well, sir," the innkeeper said, retreating a step, "it was just a thought."

Edward observed the man with a wary expression. "Well," he said, "now that you bring it up, _you _might consider giving this inn a good scrubbing down! The place smells like piss!"

The innkeeper, still blocking his nose, raised an eyebrow at him. "Are you sure it's the _inn_, sir?" he asked.

"Of course I'm sure!" Edward snapped. "I smelled as soon as..." He stopped suddenly, and glanced downwards at the revealing dark strips running down his pants. "Oh," he said, his face flushing. "That stupid horse must have scared me so bad..."

"Yes sir," the innkeeper replied, clearly not interested in the story of Edward's scare, "but perhaps you'd like a bath, though?"

Edward nodded. "Yes, I suppose I must," he declared. "But I'm going to kill that horse."

"Yes sir," the innkeeper replied.

"If she doesn't kill me first," Edward added.

"Yes sir," the innkeeper repeated, his expression unchanging. "But after your bath...there'll be plenty of time left for you to duel your horse then."


	11. Chapter 11

There was a time when all the gods were in accord,  
But the dark day came when the 8 would no longer heed  
They would not listen to Dread Sithis' spoken word  
So Sithis and his Lady departed to follow thier own way.  
-- History of the gods

Chapter Eleven

Edward was not a big fan of baths -- he could never see the point in taking off all that grease and grime, if you were only going to get fresh grease and grime all over you -- but he had to admit that it was refreshing to soak in a tub of hot, sudsy water. And, he was particularly pleased when the innkeeper brought him a fresh set of clothes, and removed his reeking ones.

Drying and dressing, Edward counted his gold. Twenty five gold pieces, and...his eyes lit up. He still had Snak gra-Bura's purse, and he'd not yet opened it! Hopefully, he thought, she would have money in there...lots and lots of money!

He unfastened the tie, and stuck his hand in. Instead of gold coins, he found something soft and fabric-like. Withdrawing it, his puzzled expression turned to one of disgust and horror. He had retrieved a very old, very used, very snotty hanky. Throwing it into the fire, and then spitting on his hand, rubbing the spitty hand against his tunic, and repeating this procedure several more times, Edward exclaimed, "Filthy, unclean, unsanitary orc! Vile, repulsive, filthy beasts!"

Cursing in this manner, he didn't hear the innkeeper knock, so he was surprised when the other man opened the door and stuck his head into the room. "Sir? Is everything alright?"

"No!" Edward snapped. "Orcs! They're filthy, revolting creatures!"

"Yes sir," the innkeeper said. "Anything else?"

Edward looked up. Perhaps it was the other man's flat tone that roused him from his disgust, but he stared at the innkeeper. There was something peculiar about this man, as though he didn't belong in an old, out of the way inn; as if his refinement of manner and practiced disinterest was out of place here.

"Ah," said the innkeeper. "I see that you're wondering about why I'm here, thinking that it's peculiar that a man of my refinement and manners, my practiced disinterest, is working in such an old, out of the way inn."

Edward could only blink at him. It was like the other man had read his mind.

"Well, sir, you are right. I am not meant for such a degrading life," the innkeeper sighed. "I was born for a higher calling, a nobler, more refined calling." He smiled wistfully. "You see, I was a valet once."

Edward blinked at the man again. "A valet?" he repeated, no great respect in his voice.

"Yes sir," the innkeeper replied, his tone almost reverent as he spoke of his former profession. "I once worked in the mansion of Lord Umbruccano in the Imperial City."

Edward nodded, taking a little bit more interest in the conversation than he had previously; after all, Lord Umbrucanno was a very wealthy, albeit eccentric, collector of Aleyid artifacts. If this man had been his valet, it was very possible -- nay, probable -- that he would have some valuable information -- valuable for a prospective robber! "I see," he said.

"Yes," the other man mused. "Yes, those were the good days. And then..." He shrugged. "And then he decided that he would be better off spending my salary on relic acquisitions." He scowled. "So here I am, wasting away, my talent squandered, my life passing by..."

Edward raised an eyebrow. Somehow, he couldn't see being Lord Umbrucanno's valet as particularly fulfilling, but he made no comment. Instead, he asked, "Now, I was wondering if you could tell me...do you have a gentleman staying here, a Mr. Rufio?"

"Yes sir," the innkeeper replied. "But I do believe calling him a 'gentleman' is an abuse of the word."

"Oh?"

"Yes sir. Unfortunately, he talks in his sleep...and one gets the distinct impression, listening to him, that he's a very evil man. It's a wonder that no one has visited justice upon him yet. I half expect a stranger to show up at any moment, and ask me where he can be found, so that he can end his miserable life."

Edward shifted his weight. "I...see. Well, just out of curiosity now, where _is _he?"

"In the cellar, sir," the innkeeper replied. "He asked for a room out of the way, and that was the only one."

Edward nodded. "Well, I think I may pay him a visit, if that's alright with you."

"You, sir?" the innkeeper asked. "Well, you're welcome to do so...but, if I were you, I wouldn't advise it, sir."

"Oh?" Edward asked. "Why?"

"Well sir," the other man answered hesitantly. "He does not take kindly to strangers...and, as I say, he is a very evil man...and, if I was to hazard a guess, one very skilled in fighting."

"Oh," Edward said, hesitantly. Suddenly, the idea of killing Rufio had lost some of its appeal.

"I think, sir, he is afraid that someone is coming to kill him. Of course," he said, "he wouldn't worry about that with you."

Edward frowned at him, vaguely sensing that he should be offended by the comment. "Why not?"

"Well, sir, no one would suspect _you _of being a hired assassin," the innkeeper replied with a smile.

"Because I'm too respectable?" Edward asked, trying to make up his mind whether he had been complimented or insulted.

"Ummm...yes sir," the innkeeper replied, in such a hesitant tone that Edward was certain that it had, in fact, been an insult.

"Well," Edward declared hotly, sick and tired of people doubting his abilities, "I'll have you know that I just happen to be a paid assassin -- a member of the Dark Brotherhood!"

The innkeeper stared at him, expressions of awe and then disbelief cycling on his face. "Are you serious, sir?"

"Quite serious!" Edward snapped. "And, what's more, I've come here to kill that vicious old man!"

The innkeeper's expression turned to one of admiration. "Well, sir, please accept my apologies. A member of the Dark Brotherhood? Well, well! How exciting."

"Yes!" Edward declared. If nothing else, his membership in this apparently legendary band of murderous cutthroats was winning him respect.

"Oh, sir," the innkeeper declared, "this is an honor! To meet a member of that group, face to face -- that group of dark avengers, the hands of justice, of swift retribution for evil, unfailing, unflinching, serving the greater good, disposing of evil mercilessly, serving the Great Avenger, Sithis, and the Lady of Eternal Darkness, the Night Mother; reaping the souls of the cutthroats, the murderers, the evil doers who would destroy the empire!"

Edward shifted uncomfortably. What was this man talking about? Had he misheard him? Was there some other group of people, who called themselves something similar, with whom he was confusing the Brotherhood? The Brotherhood was, after all, a group _of _murderers, cutthroats, evil doers...wasn't it? "I think there might be some mistake," he said. "I said I was a member of the Dark Brotherhood."

The innkeeper nodded his head excitedly. "Yes, of course," he said. "Everyone knows the reputation of your order, but few have ever met one of you in person! Ohh, you have no idea how _exciting _this is! To meet someone who embraces justice so much that they will serve the gods themselves to avenge evil, and provide justice for the wronged! Ohh, what an honor it is to meet you!"

Edward stood fixed in place, a quizzical expression on his face. Was this man mad? Or was the Brotherhood really what he described, an organization of avengers who killed evildoers? Somehow, that didn't quite fit the dark, glorious image he'd conjured in his mind. His reflection was interrupted, though, by the continued prattle of the innkeeper.

"I say, sir," he was saying, "please don't think this impertinent of me...but...you wouldn't be looking for a valet, by any chance, would you?"


	12. Chapter 12

Of kings and cowards he sings,  
Of war and the devastation it brings,  
Ode to the warriors and the heroes,  
And jeers at Edward and other zeros.  
-- Tribute to the Captain of the Blades

Chapter Twelve

After agreeing that, perhaps, maybe just perhaps, he could use a faithful valet -- particularly one with an intimate knowledge of the interior, valuables and security detail of one of the wealthiest manors in the Imperial City -- Edward headed to the cellar. The innkeeper had cautioned him again, although he seemed to have gained some respect for his skills, but Edward had brushed the concern off. Now, however, having crept down the rickety ladder into a dank, poorly lit stone hallway, he was having second thoughts.

"What if this guy is a master warrior?" he wondered. "But, he's an old man...I can easily overpower an old man...all I have to do is..." His mind stopped. What? What _would _he do? Much as he boasted of his abilities to himself and others, he had never killed anyone before -- except Simplicia, and that was a complete accident. "Well, I could just...I mean, it wouldn't be so hard to...well, how difficult could it be to..." His forehead creased, and he sat down on the cold stone floor to think; he ran over the only death he had to his name, that of Simplicia. "I suppose," he thought uncertainly, "I could try to push him down, too. This floor is hard enough, I think, for an accident. Well, a deliberate accident." His frown deepened. "But what if he didn't go down just right?"

He remained sitting on the floor for several more minutes, attempting to think of a reasonable plan, but having no luck. At last, he decided his best bet was to go with the impulse of the moment; he would confront Rufio, and then do whatever came to mind. "That's it," he thought, "that's the way to go...spontaneous! It's what I live by, and I haven't done so bad yet." He smiled smugly, and headed to the room the innkeeper had mentioned as being Rufio's.

Turning the handle quietly, he tiptoed into the room. There, lying on a bed near the opposite wall, lay an old, white haired man, sleeping. Edward stared incredulously at him. Was this what all the fuss was about? This frail, old creature? He scoffed. Just what kind of weakling did they take him to be, anyway?! All he would have to do was sneak up, take out his sword, plunge it into the old man's heart...

He froze. "Oh, crap! I don't have a sword! I don't have anything, except a few gold pieces!" he thought. "What am I gonna do?!?" He glanced around the room. There was a chair, a small table, some crates ("What kind of lunatic keeps crates in their bedroom, anyway?!"), and a dresser. His eyes lit up. And there, on top of the dresser, was a dagger.

A broad smile spreading over his face, Edward crept to the dresser, seized the dagger, lifted it over the old man, and...froze. "I can't do this!" he thought. "I can't risk getting blood on my new clothes!"

At that moment the old man's eyes opened, and he gasped. "What are you doing?! I haven't done anything!"

Edward didn't know what to say to this, so just shot back, "Yes you have!"

The old man's eyes opened wider. "I thought...I thought no one knew about that!"

"The Dread Father knows everything!" he declared. He wasn't sure why he said it, or who, exactly, Sithis was (he had flunked Sunday school, after all), but it sounded like what the innkeeper had said -- and that was pretty cool sounding stuff, even if it wasn't as cool as what he'd originally imagined!

"Oh dear gods!" the old man screamed, his face white with terror. "It wasn't my fault! She should have known better than to go outside without her veil! My honor was besmirched! I had no choice!"

Edward wrinkled his nose. "She? Veil? What?"

"My daughter!" Rufio answered. "That's why you're here, right? Because of her death?"

"Umm..." Edward stalled, "Maybe."

"Please don't!" the old man begged.

Edward, still busily attempting to figure out what Rufio's confession had meant, didn't notice the old man's hand moving slowly toward the edge of the blanket. All at once, though, Rufio's arm shot up and grabbed the dagger; before he knew it, Edward was locked in a fight for the dagger, and feeling his grip loosening. "He's gonna get it away from me!" he thought. "I gotta get out of here!"

Dropping the dagger, Edward pulled hard to get away from Rufio; this action surprised the old man, and he loosed his grip on his would-be assassin. Edward took to his heels, yelling for help, with Rufio hot in pursuit. Unfortunately, Edward ran straight into the chair he'd noticed earlier, flipped over it, and came crashing down. Rufio, just behind him, didn't have time to stop, and careened into his body. Edward heard and felt, rather than saw, this last bit, and could only think that he had to get up and get away before he felt the dagger plunged into his back. He jumped to his feet, but was surprised to see the old man sprawled unmoving on the floor in front of him.

Examining Rufio's body, he gaped. He was dead! Then a smile spread across his lips. "It worked!" he thought. "My plan worked! The murderer is dead!"

At that moment, he heard a clatter in the hallway, and looked up just as the innkeeper burst into the room, a sword in hand. The other man froze, staring at him and the corpse.

"What on earth are you doing??" Edward asked.

"Well, sir, I heard you scream for help, and I thought..."

"Scream for help?" Edward repeated. "I did no such thing!"

"But I heard you scream, sir! So did the traveler upstairs!"

Edward blinked, and then remembered that he had, during his flight, loosed a scream. "Well," he said, a bit flustered, "of course I screamed. But I wasn't screaming for help!"

"Oh?"

"I was calling for you to come down here and...admire my handiwork!"

"Oh, I see," the innkeeper said, his face lighting up. He sheathed his blade, and then bent to admire the corpse. "Amazing, sir, just amazing! You've put an end to a very evil man! I have to say, I half didn't believe you'd be able to do it." Edward frowned deeply, and the innkeeper shot a furtive, apologetic glance up at him. "I mean so neatly, sir. No blood! Would you look at that? Why, if I didn't know better, I would have come down here, seen him lying like that, and said he tripped and hit his head!" Edward shifted uncomfortably, but said nothing. "Tell me, sir, how did you do it?"

Edward flinched at the question. "Well, you, umm, don't expect me to give away trade secrets like that, now do you?"


	13. Chapter 13

The fools did not listen to me and my lady,  
And so we went our separate way  
Our project of dark justice to oversee  
Foolish pleas could not make us stay.  
-- Excerpt from _The Dark Brotherhood_ by the Dread Father Sithis, regarding Sithis' split from the eight divines

Chapter Thirteen

Edward rested at the inn of ill omen for half a day. Then, remembering his deadline to get back to Cheydinhal, and not quite sure how much time he'd already squandered, he and the innkeeper set out. The innkeeper -- now Edward's valet -- rode his own horse, and Edward rode the nag he'd stolen from Snak gra-Bura; it might have been difficult for an observer to decide who was less pleased with the idea, the horse or Edward.

Even it was only the dry, obligatory "Yes sir", "No sir", "Indeed, sir!" and "You don't say, sir?", Edward found that he enjoyed their conversation -- most particularly because, aside from an unbelieving raised eyebrow, the valet did not so much as question even his most absurd claims. So it was that the valet did not dispute the claim that Edward was the bastard son of the late Uriel Septim, who had been chosen by the dying Emperor as his heir, but who was on the lam from the imperial guards, who sought to assassinate him and put their Pretorian prefect in charge of the empire; nor did he dispute the claim that Edward was a champion of the sufferers, a crusader for the underprivileged, the friend of the downtrodden and the protector of the unprotected.

Many "I see, sir!" and "Oh, you don't say, sir!" and "Indeed, sir!" 's later, the pair arrived in Cheydinhal.

Telling his valet that the meeting place and meeting had to remain a secret, Edward sent the other man to rent a room for them. Thankfully, the valet had brought his own money, and, so far at least, had not asked Edward for any. Watching him, go, Edward sighed a breath of relief. He didn't want the innkeeper around, just in case Lucien was as insulting this time as he had been last time. "No sense having the manservant witness his rudeness," he thought to himself, with an air of superiority. He'd be willing to bet that that snobby Lucien Lachance didn't have a servant -- even if he could cast really cool spells.

Edward walked up to the door of the abandoned house, and stared at it. It was an old home, with the door and windows boarded over. "How in Oblivion am I supposed to get in there?" he wondered. "Grow big teeth and chew through?!" Sighing, he rounded the house to check for any potential entrances through which he could crawl, duck, slither or otherwise find admittance; there were none. Finally, returning to the front door, he kicked it angrily, thinking what a rotten joke Lucien Lachance must have played on him.

Much to his surprise, the door opened; and, to his even greater surprise, he saw that the boards on the door had been sawed at the door jam, to _appear _as if they blocked off the door, but doing nothing of the sort. "I say," he thought, "how very clever! Of course, even cleverer of me to see through it, but, still, clever."

Edward stepped inside, and jumped as he heard the door creak shut after him. The house was dark -- very dark -- and his eyes were long in adjusting. Squinting, Edward looked around. All he saw at first were dim outlines, but then things started to appear; old, decayed, abandoned things. He saw crates here, the remnants of furniture there, and junk everywhere. "Great gods," he said to himself, "they don't actually expect me to stay here, do they?"

But, deciding that he'd better have a look around, just in case someone was waiting for him, Edward crept about the room. All at once, he loosed a scream as he plunged headlong down a staircase, smashed into a crate, careened to the side, and plummeted through a hole in what seemed like a basement wall. "Son of a Blade!" he thought, picking himself up and brushing ample cobwebs off his head. "They should have lights in this damn place..." Looking around him, he saw the staircase down which he'd fell, and the crates into which he'd smashed. "Oh, great," he thought, "I can see it when I'm down here, but not until I fall down it." He glowered, and continued his examination. He was in a passage that connected to the home's basement. Edward frowned, but decided to follow the passage, shivering as he noted that it glowed an eerie red.


	14. Chapter 14

'Tis Fate's cruel jest,  
To promote this jester  
He gods have blessed,  
For what sadistic joke?  
-- Ode to Edward

Chapter Fourteen

Edward stopped at the end of the passage, frowning. Here was another door, but, rather than boards, like on the house's main door, this one was adorned with peculiar carvings. Furthermore, it had no handle; but, he decided, they clearly preferred alternate methods of opening the doors here anyway. "Well," he thought, "better open it." With this, he kicked the door, and hard.

Falling backwards, gasping, whimpering and shuddering, Edward grasped his foot. Not only did the door not budge, but, unlike the front door, this one was made of stone. Tears welling in his eyes, Edward cursed aloud.

Then, forgetting even his agony, he felt a preternatural fear seize him as an eerie voice -- it seemed to come from the door itself! -- asked, "What the hell did you kick me for, you imbecile??"

Edward could only blink in response.

"All you have to do is give me the password," the door continued.

"Password?" Edward managed to croak.

"That's right ... what's the password?"

Edward searched his mind, but couldn't remember Lucien making any mention of a password. And then, another idea struck him. "Mel-lon?" he asked, rather than said.

The door started laughing, so heartily that Edward almost forgot his fear, and almost felt the urge to kick it a second time; almost. Instead, he asked, "What's so funny?"

"Nothing," the door answered. "Nothing at all...oh boy, are you going to deserve what you get!"

"What?"

"I'm going to let you in," the door said. "But you better be sure you know what you're doing." At this, the door erupted in laughter a second time, and opened.

Resisting the renewed urge to kick it, Edward passed the door, and entered a large, pillared chamber. With a shiver, he heard the still laughing door close, and then froze as an armed, animate skeleton walked by him.

"Great gods," he thought, "where am I?"

At that moment, a voice accosted him. "Wow, you made it!"

Edward frowned, and turned to the speaker. It was a man he had never seen before, a dark haired, older looking man, with strangely red eyes and sharp, pointed teeth. "Who are you?" he asked.

"Vicente Valtieri," the other answered, his face expressive of amazement. "But, wow, I'm really surprised to see you here."

Edward's frown deepened. "Why?"

He received no answer, however, as a young woman approached. He was struck immediately by her beauty, and he was suddenly very self conscious. Picking cobwebs from his eyebrows with one hand, he extended the other to her. "Edward," he said, attempting to add a mature depth to his voice, but managing only to sound severely constipated. "Pleased to meet you."

She raised an eyebrow at him, turned her blue eyes to Vicente, and then back to him. "Are you sick?" she asked.

Edward blinked at her. "No, of course not."

"Then what's wrong with your voice?"

Edward frowned anew. This time, Vicente changed the topic. "Now, Edmund, Lucien told us that he had spoken to you. So, you're our new member, eh?"

Edward's frown deepened. "Edward," he said, his tone regular. "And, yes, I am."

Vicente nodded. "I see. Well, we're very pleased to meet you, Edmund. Welcome!" He paused, surveyed Edward's cobweb covered form, and then added, "I hope you didn't have any trouble finding the hideout?"

"Well," Edward answered, having missed the import of Vicente's rather amused glance, "since you mention it, yes, as a matter of fact, I did. For one thing, you really should put some lights in that house. Someone might trip and hurt themselves!" Hearing something like a snicker from the pretty woman, whose name he still didn't know, Edward hurried to add, "That was the first thing that caught my eye -- because, of course, I'm sensitive to the fact that not everyone is as adept and skillful on their feet as I am." Ignoring the raised eyebrows of the man and woman, he forged ahead. "And, secondly, what is the password for that stupid door?"

"The password?" Vicente asked. "You mean, you didn't know? Then how did you get in?"

Edward sighed. "Yes, yes, and the door let me in because of my improvised password."

"I see," Vicente said. "What was the improvised password?"

Edward opened his mouth to speak, but, remembering the door's reaction shut it. After a second's thought, he said, "Nevermind that, what is the real password?"

"Sanguine, my brother," Vicente answered.


	15. Chapter 15

Mysterious haunting of the Inn of Ill Omen!  
It is with a fearful pen that your trusted courier brings you this startling news! The secluded Inn of Ill Omen, according to an eye witness, has been visited by a dark stranger murdered a patron, known as Rufio. Furthermore, the innkeeper has completely vanished, leading to rumors that the dark stranger was, in fact, a mysterious, malevolent spirit, and his visit was in fact a haunting. Be that as it may, this correspondent will certainly not be patronizing the Inn of Ill Omen any time soon!  
-- Black Horse Courier, Special News Bulletin

Chapter Fifteen

"So, you must be a new killer?" the pretty young woman asked of Edward, who was still picking cobwebs out of his eyebrows.

Glancing up from between his unnaturally long, gray eyebrows, Edward smiled at the girl, now very conscious of the webs hanging all over his head. "Yes," he replied. Then, before he could continue, he noticed a spider on one of the webs hanging in front of his eyes. "AHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!" he screamed, running backwards as though to distance himself from the thing. His back meeting sharply with a wall, he found himself running forward, backward, to the side, this way and that, blindly, screaming in terror and flailing his arms wildly as he did so. It seemed all sense had vanished, and all he was left with was a dread panic, only increased by the presence of the spider before and between his eyes, now apparently clinging onto his nose for fear of falling off. Finally, one poorly calculated turn put him in face-to-stone contact with a pillar, which was very quickly followed up by butt-to-stone contact with the floor. Edward lay still for a few moments, and then blinked. His head hurt, very intensely, and his butt wasn't particularly comfortable, either. Staring at the stone ceiling above him, he couldn't remember his location or even his name. "Where am I?" he asked, of no one in particular.

"In our hideout," a pleasant voice beside him said. "What happened?"

He was wondering the same thing, and turned to see the speaker. It was a beautiful, blue eyed girl. He smiled at her, "Well, I don't know, but, hey, how would you feel about going out with me this..." He paused, frowning. "What day is it?" After all, it was hard to ask a girl out when you didn't know when you were supposed to go out.

The girl frowned at him, but another voice, a deeper, masculine one, spoke. "What in the name of Mehrunes Dagon's beard was that??"

Edward started, and turned to him. He was an older man, with hard, sharp, prominent canine teeth. "What?"

"That running around and screaming bit," the other man said.

And then, all at once, everything came back to him, and Edward remembered what had caused his fit. "SPIDER!!!!!!!" he screamed.

The pretty girl frowned, and said, "Is that what that splotch is on your nose?" Edward screamed again, but, shushing him, she said, "It's quite dead now. You probably flattened it when you ran into the pillar."

Panting, still terrified, Edward flailed his arms, too frightened to do anything else. "Get it off! Get it off!" he managed to breathe.

The girl's frown intensified, but, cautiously, she leant forward and wiped something off his face with a handkerchief.

"Arachnophobia," the dour man beside him said, meditatively. "Clear case of it."

"Well," the young woman spoke with a frown, "if you hate spiders so much, why on earth are you using your head as a cobweb duster?"

Edward felt the color rising to his pallid cheek, and he said, "I wasn't using my head as a cobweb duster!" Turning to Vicente, he snapped, "And I don't have arachnophobia, or whatever it was you said!"

Vicente shook his head, saying only, "Oh yes you do. You may not realize it, but I recognize the signs very clearly."

"You? How? What are you, some sort of doctor?"

"No," the woman said, "but he has Alliumphobia."

"And I recognize the signs of phobia in you," the man finished.

Edward frowned. Truth to be told, he was terrified of spiders. "Well," he said, still not ready to concede the point, "are you saying you act like that whenever you see aluminum?"

Vicente and the woman glanced at each other, their eyebrows raised.

"Alliumphobia is the fear of garlic," the girl answered.

"Well, whatever," Edward said, waving aside the correction. "But are you saying you act like I did when you see garlic?"

"Well," Vicente said hesitantly, "I respond in a somewhat more _dignified _manner, but the fear is similar."

Edward frowned again. Dignified? Who did this dour, stuffed shirt Breton think he was?

"Anyway," Vicente declared, "Enough about that. Welcome to our lair. I am your reference and taskmaster here, and will be for some time."

"Oh," Edward said.

"I will be in charge of sending you on tasks, and will pay you upon their completion. But, first, you must meet your fellow guildmates. First," he said, pointing to the young lady at Edward's side, "I'd like to introduce you to Antionetta Marie."

"Charmed," Edward smiled.

"She is a Slayer in the Brotherhood," Vicente informed him.

"Which," Antionetta pointed out, "is a rank higher than a Killer."

"Oh, I see," Edward smiled, quite untruthfully, as he had no idea of the rank system in the Brotherhood.

"Which is your rank," she informed him, smiling for the first time.

"Oh," he repeated, with some degree of clarity. "So you outrank me?"

"You better believe it," she returned with a steely smile.

He frowned, but said nothing.

"Well," Vicente declared, "time to meet the rest of the family."


	16. Chapter 16

The acolyte entered the sanctuary,  
And in his wake left laughter and disdain.  
The acolyte went about his tasks,  
And the Brotherhood agreed he was a pain.  
-- Annals of the Dark Brotherhood

Chapter Sixteen

Edward frowned. He had met a number of new people, and he was trying to keep their names and faces in order in his mind. There was Teinaava, an orcess...no, wait, _he _was an Argonian, and the _orc _was...who? Oh, that's right. Gogron gro-Bolmog. And there was the elf, Talldrill. No, wait, that wasn't her name...what was it? Telaendril. Yes, that was it. Plus there was Ocheeva, an Argonian female, and her pet rat, Schemer. And the animate skeleton walking around? He -- or it -- was a Dark Guardian.

"Well, you've met everyone but M'raaj-Dar," Vicente declared.

"Whose that?" Edward asked.

"You'll see," Vicente replied darkly.

Edward shivered as the Breton pushed open the doors to the training room and ushered him inside. "M'raaj-Dar!" Vicente said, "Meet our newest colleague!"  
The stern face of a Khajiit turned toward him, cast an appraising yet disparaging glance from his head to toe, and turned away. "Now, M'raaj-Dar," Vicente said, "be polite. Edward here is our newest Killer."

M'raaj-Dar turned again, snickered, and shook his head. Then, he turned back to a dummy, and continued casting spells on it.

"Go on," Vicente whispered. "He's a bit ornery...you need to open up to him, and then he'll open up to you."

Edward grimaced, not very happy about approaching this ornery, apparently powerful, mage, but doing as he was bid nonetheless. "Hey," he started. The cat paused from his practice, turned to him, and raised an eyebrow. Edward gulped, and continued, "Well, umm, nice to meet you." He would have left at that, but could feel Vicente's stern gaze on him. "So, hey, how's it going? I mean, what's up?"

The Khajiit's disparaging eyes held his for a second, and then, glancing about the room, leaned forward, as though readying to impart a secret of some sort. "Well," he said, "since you're asking...I have it on good authority that the newest addition to the Brotherhood is an annoying whelp unworthy of licking my boots. How's that for gossip?"

Edward blinked, and then turned to Vicente for guidance as to how to proceed; but the Breton was laughing heartily. Edward frowned.

"Go on," M'raaj-Dar said, "The guild charter prevents me from killing you, but that doesn't mean I have to like you...now get, you foul-smelling ape..."

Seeing as how Vicente was doing naught but laughing heartily, and the Khajiit had resumed his spellcasting, Edward hastened to comply. The last thing he wanted to do was divert some of those nasty-looking spells his way.

Approaching the Breton, Edward demanded, "What's so funny?"

Between gasps for breath, Vicente explained, "Forgive me, but, well, it's sort of a rite of passage here...M'raaj-Dar's ornery disposition is always a shock to new people, and so much fun to watch."

At these words, he lost himself in laughter again. Edward's frown deepened, and deliberately continued to grow deeper to show clearly his annoyance as the other man laughed, until at last he feared that he might lose his eyes altogether in the frown. Finally, to Edward's great relief, Vicente stopped laughing. Clearing his throat, he once again resumed his formal, dour appearance. "He'd almost pass for the annoying prig he was when I met him," Edward thought, "except for the damned laughter in his eyes." There, he was quite right, because, for all his serious exterior, Vicente's red eyes danced with laughter still.

"Alright, look," Edward said after a few minutes of silence, "I came here to get my next assignment, and then get a good night's sleep." Now, just for good measure, he made a point of mentioning his servant. "My valet already rented us rooms at the inn."

"Oh," Vicente said, "Of course." Edward frowned as he noted that these words were hardly spoken with the respect he'd hoped to inspire. "Well, there's a pirate dog that needs to be sent to the pound." Edward raised an eyebrow as Vicente snickered at his own pun. "Yes, well, there is a vile pirate captain called Gaston Tussaud. His ship is the Marie Elena, harbored at the Imperial City dock."

Edward nodded. "Is that all?"

"Yes," Vicente said. "He's an evil man, you know...he's taken many, many innocent lives. Time to turn the tables on him."

Edward sighed impatiently. "And is there a reward for doing it?"

"Yes, of course," Vicente answered. "Oh! And I almost forgot your reward for killing Rufio. Here." With this, he handed him a purse of gold.

Edward felt a smile appearing on his face, so checked it immediately. "Well," he said, "I'll be going then. My servant probably already has dinner waiting for me." With this, he turned on his heel and left the room.

In the main chamber, he immediately saw Antionetta Marie. Drawing himself up, tall and as stately as he could muster at least, he approached and smiled. "I would love to stay and talk to you," he said, "but I have urgent business taking my attention. A pirate dog needs to be put down; and I'm the pound master." He smiled as he reworked and retold Vicente's joke, but Antionetta only rolled her eyes. "Well, yes, anyway, I look forward to meeting you again."

Antionetta made no comment -- beyond that conveyed by her dismissive expression -- and Edward headed to the door, kicking himself mentally. "Why on earth did I repeat that stupid joke?" he wondered. "I should have tapped my own resources of wit and charm, rather than rely on that bozo's idiotic mutterings!!"


	17. Chapter 17

Oh, ye great and glorious king of bunglers,  
Who but you could so much mischief make?  
Oh, ye chosen and blessed pawn of the gods,  
Who but they could choose such a flake?  
-- Tribute to Edward

Chapter Seventeen

Edward had left the Dark Brotherhood hideout to reconnoiter with his valet, but, emerging from the abandoned house covered in dust and cobwebs and with his eyes accustomed to the darkness, he stood there and blinked very stupidly for a number of minutes. A guard passed by, glanced at him at first, then paused to eye him with suspicion. Edward stared back, and then remembering his sullied attire, he began to brush himself off vigorously.

"Excuse me, sir," the guard stated, coming nearer, "but is everything alright? You look as though you tumbled down an abandoned staircase covered in cobwebs and dust, or something of that sort."

Edward frowned deeply at the man, declaring rather haughtily, "For your information, I'm an exterminator, and it is my job to crawl into all sorts of nasty places to hunt and exterminate the worst and most dangerous varmints." He wasn't sure where, exactly, that lie had come from, but he certainly didn't want to admit the truth of where he had been and why.

"I see," the guard said, but his air showed plainly that he did nothing of the sort. "So you've been exterminating things?"

"Yes," Edward declared, smiling inwardly as this wasn't, technically, a lie -- although the "things" the guard had in mind were almost certainly not murderers and vagabonds, which he had been exterminating and planning to exterminate.

"I see," the guard repeated. "And in that old house?"

Here Edward hesitated. "Maybe," he declared at last. "I don't see that my business is your business, though."

The guard crossed his arms. "Well," he said, "seeing as how I have the power to throw you into prison for anything I darn well please, I think all business is my business if I choose it to be my business, and I choose that this is my business."

Edward frowned. "Well, when you put it like that," he replied, "I guess it makes sense."

"Precisely. Now, were you exterminating in that house?"

"Sort of," Edward answered, still not sure of how to answer.

"Sort of?" the guard repeated. "What does that mean?"

"Well," he returned slowly, inspiration suddenly coming to him, "I was looking for things to exterminate, but didn't find any."

"Oh," the guard said. "Well, why would you even bother looking in that old dump?"

This was indeed a puzzler, and Edward didn't immediately have an answer. After humming and hawing for a few moments, though, he replied, "Old houses are the best gauge of what you'll find in a town, you see. Oftentimes they're the source. If there are rats in town, likely they came from there. So, if there are rats in town, they'll be there too."

The guard frowned. "Really?"

"Oh, yes," Edward assured him, with as much sincerity as he could muster.

"I've never thought of it like that," the guard pondered.

"Trick of the trade," Edward smiled.

"So," the guard said slowly, "you're saying there are no rats in town?"

Something in the ponderous tone set off an alarm in Edward's mind, and he answered in kind, slowly and thoughtfully. "Well, that remains to be seen. There are no rats _there _and around here."

"Really?" the guard asked, a little too eagerly for Edward's liking.

"Yes," he said cautiously, adding quickly, "Unless they have another lair."

"Another lair?" the guard asked.

"Yes," Edward repeated.

"But I thought you said that..."

Edward interrupted him. "Oh yes, and that's all very true. But a good predictor isn't a certain predictor, you see?"

The guard frowned, but said nothing.

"Well, if you'll excuse me," Edward said after a few moments of silence, "I'll be on my way."

"Not so fast," the guard intervened. "There are rats in this town. In the castle dungeon, in fact. You make a crazed sort of sense, so I guess you must be what you say you are. Since we don't have an exterminator in town, I'm going to need you to do the job."

"Me?" Edward balked. "No thank you. I'm not interested."

The guard frowned. "Either you're going to go into the dungeon as a rat exterminator, or you're going there as prisoner," he said finally. "Your choice."

"Oh," Edward responded. His brow creased in thought. "Well, I suppose I'll go as an exterminator," he said at last.

"Wise choice," the guard returned sarcastically. "Come along then -- we'll go there directly."

"No!" Edward interjected, hastening to add, "I mean, not today."

The guard's eyes clouded with suspicion and anger. "What? Why?"

"Because...well, because I will have to prepare my tools."

"Your tools?"

"Yes, my tools of...of extermination!"

The guard frowned suspiciously. "How long will that take?"

"Umm...two days?" Edward answered almost hesitantly.

"You've got one," the guard returned. "You better be at the dungeon tomorrow evening at 5:00." He grimaced. "And I mean it! I am so sick and tired of listening to those damned prisoners scream whenever a rat comes into their dungeon that I've half a mind to exterminate them myself -- and I don't mean the rats!!" With this cheery thought, the guard departed, leaving Edward to wonder what, exactly, he had just gotten himself into.


	18. Chapter 18

The world is boorish and callous,  
With no appreciation for my talents  
My dark heart and beautiful malice,  
Are wasted on this barren planet.  
-- Lament of Mehrunes Dagon

Chapter Eighteen

Edward stepped out of the Cheydinhal Bridge Inn disgustedly -- or rather, he picked himself off the stoop of the Inn disgustedly. He had never been so rudely handled in his entire life! "_Well, alright_," his mind admitted, "_there was that time on my last birthday, when I'd had too much to drink...and then that time when I got caught attempting to pick a pocket, and denied it but nobody believed me...and then that time when the priest caught me sticking my hands in the offering box, and didn't believe that my hand full of gold coins was actually an offering...and then..._"

"_Oh shut up!_" another voice, his own again, declared, interrupting his train of thought. Edward frowned. It was bad enough to hear that from other people; he hated when his mind did that to him too.

"_You're supposed to be on my side, here_," he said inwardly.

To which an inward voice responded, "_Then stop babbling like an imbecile and I will be!_"

Engaged in this internal dialogue, Edward stumbled through the streets of Cheydinhal without paying much attention to his surroundings.

His vexation, of course, was easily explained. He had stepped into the Cheydinhal Bridge Inn -- which, he observed disparagingly, was located nowhere near a bridge -- and asked for his valet. The proprietress had been extremely insolent, and even implied that he was an impostor and that one such as he would never have a servant. This irritating insinuation drew from him a response that his valet had indeed come to take a room for both of them that very afternoon. The innkeeper merely laughed at him, declaring him to be a liar, and saying that no one had requested a room, much less two rooms. Edward, already irritated by his run-in with the guard, and the way the cobwebs stuck to the perspiration on his skin (thanks to his the nervous sweating that the encounter with the guard had produced), had snapped back some smart reply. From there, the already bad situation had escalated to a worse one, which ended with Edward being seized by several patrons and thrown headlong out of the door. Certainly, he had lunged across the counter at the proprietress, spittle shooting forth from his mouth, and threats to murder her issuing from his lips, but he had never meant to actually murder her. "_And, anyway,_" he wondered, "_what ever happened to 'the customer is always right'_??" He sighed, as his thoughts came to this milestone. "_Customer service has indeed gone downhill_," he thought dejectedly.

"_And where, exactly, is that damn valet of mine?_" he wondered, his mind taking up another train of thought. "_I told him to rent rooms for us! If he didn't do that, then where is he? And what are we going to do now that we've been kicked out of that stupid inn?_" He loosed another sigh, and continued his pensive, pointless wandering.

"Sir!" a familiar voice called to him.

Edward looked up. It was his valet! "There you are!" he exclaimed. "Where have you been? I thought you were going to rent us rooms?"

"I did sir," the valet answered.

Edward frowned. "But I just spoke with the innkeeper, and she insisted that you had not!"

The valet, in his turn, frowned. "I'm not sure what to say, sir. I've heard that the Newlands Lodge is trustworthiness itself. I am shocked to hear..."

"Wait, what?" Edward interrupted.

The valet stared at him uncomprehendingly.

"Where did you say?"

"The Newlands Lodge," the other replied. "Of course, sir. The only other inn in town is the Cheydinhal Bridge inn, and it is very pricey. Plus this establishment is reputed to..." Here he lowered his voice. "Well, sir, to be very discrete concerning its clients."

Edward grumbled something incoherent. He was kicking himself for not realizing that there might be more than one inn in town. No wonder that arrogant woman had been so...well, arrogant to him.


	19. Chapter 19

Hear the tolling of the bell,  
Hear it sound the death knell.  
It must be answered, that bell;  
It must be silenced, that knell.  
-- Song of the Doomed

Chapter Nineteen

Edward had slept for hours, woken to eat, and then slept again. He was tired, irritated, and not a little sore from his many misadventures. However, now that it was midday on the day after his rendezvous with the Dark Brotherhood, he was growing very apprehensive. He was expected, after all, at 5:00 that afternoon at the castle, and he had no idea how to get out of the predicament. He couldn't see himself as an effective exterminator, yet he couldn't skip town, either. After all, his Dark Brotherhood hideout was here in town, and he would be expected to return here often; if he became an outlaw in Cheydinhal, that would be impossible.

He had thought about consulting his valet, but could not reconcile himself with the idea of seeking assistance from his paid subordinate. Even when his mind had argued that, so far at least, he had not actually _paid _the man anything, his pride still balked at the idea. No, this was something he would have to face by himself, come what may, he determined. With this determination set in a deep sense of depression, and Edward, feeling sure that his doom was near at hand and that he was likely to spend the remainder of his life in prison after his deceit was uncovered, moped about town.

He had no real or clear idea of where he was going or why in mind, so he walked about aimlessly, growing sorrier and sorrier for himself with every passing minute. After traveling in what must have been circles for what must have been hours, he paused to figure out where he was. There were buildings all around that seemed strangely familiar, but, though he sensed he had been there before, he had no idea when or how he'd got there.

At the same time, he heard the sonorous tolling of a bell.  
_  
One._

Two.

Three.

Four.  
  
"Please, please, _please _stop!" he pleaded with the bell.

_Five_, it chimed, oblivious to his supplications.

Edward took to his heels, knowing that he was already late. It didn't matter to him what direction he was he going -- he didn't know anyway -- so long as he was going. He ran to the end of the street, rounded a corner, and came to a sudden, sharp stop as he impacted with what at first he assumed was a giant moving rock, as it didn't budge an inch at the encounter, and seemed solid as stone. Careening backwards, and landing painfully and heavily on his behind, Edward glanced up. The rock was nothing of the sort, but the same armored guard he had met the day before.

"Oh," he said, wincing in pain. "It's you."

"Yes," the guard answered. "And why aren't you at the castle??"

"I'm on my way," Edward replied.

The guard frowned. "You're late."

"So are you," Edward pointed out.

The guard's frown deepened. "Just get a move on it."

"Right," Edward answered, picking himself up with much difficulty. He ached all over, all over again. Glancing around him, he remembered that he had no idea which road would lead to the castle. "Umm...which way are we going?"

"To the castle!" the guard returned, irritably.

"Right, but...well, which way is the castle?"

The guard stared at him, eyebrows raised, and then pointed. "See the giant stone building on the hill? The one with all the walls and towers? With the big gate? That's where we're going."

Edward frowned at the condescending tone, but rightly thought it better not to further irritate the guard. And, beside, he did feel a little silly. "After all," he thought, "the gate should have given away which building it was. Nobody gets to have a gate like that, unless it's on a castle."

The pair walked in silence, each pondering his own thoughts, until at last they reached the castle. "This way," the guard said, taking the lead. Edward followed until they reached the dungeon. He felt the skin on his neck crawl as he glanced around, anticipating the sight of rats. But, much to his surprise -- and relief -- there were none to be seen. "I thought you said you wanted me to kill rats," he said.

"Quite so," the guard answered. "I don't know how you go about this, but I imagine that, if you sit still for a few minutes, and I put out this light..." With this, he paused to douse a torch, and throw the entire dungeon into an eerie dimness. "...well, they should come out in no time. I'll shut the door behind me -- you just knock when you're done, and I'll let you out."

Edward gulped loudly, a thousand fears flooding him; but, before he could collect his thoughts into an even mildly coherent mass, the guard was gone. He heard the door scrape shut, and then the lock grate. Chill dread stole over his entire body, and he slumped backwards against the door, too frightened to speak or move, except to whimper and shake. He, Edward, was alone in a dungeon with prisoners and rats. And, in his state of depression, he'd forgotten to bring any weapons with him. He shook more violently at the thought. He, Edward, was alone _and unarmed_ in a dungeon full of prisoners and rats.


	20. Chapter 20

Cowardice will never pay,  
At least, that's what they say  
But see you Edward's tale  
And wonder, will the coward fail?  
-- Tribute to Edward, author unknown

Chapter Twenty

Edward stirred ever so slightly. He wasn't sure where he was, what time it was, or why he was where ever it was that he was, but he was aware of a vague apprehension. This apprehension, however, was a secondary sensation; the primary sensation he felt was a tickling of his nose. "Almost like cat whiskers, except from a very big cat," he thought absently, still struggling to consciousness. "Or a dog...or a ra..." He was suddenly wide awake, on his feet, and screaming wildly. The room was very dim, but he could make out the shape of the very thing he had feared to find: a giant rat.

He remembered now what had happened; he had collapsed in fear against the door, and somehow, in his terror, lost consciousness. Now the rats had come out, and he was surrounded by them. Edward did not think or reason at this realization. He just screamed and flailed blindly.

He felt teeth bite into his leg, hard, and his mad flailing intensified. He screamed and trashed and cursed and ran and smashed into everything around him. One moment his shoulder was in contact with the wall, the next he felt the cold iron bars of the nearest cell on his face, then the floor underneath him; in an instant, screaming, kicking, punching out wildly, he was on his feet again, and the cycle continued.

"Oh gods," he screamed, "they're gonna eat me! Save me! Save me!"

Almost in answer to his plea, another voice sounded. But this was not the voice of a god, but rather an annoyed inmate. "Will you _please_ stop screaming?!" it asked. "I'm trying to get some sleep! I'm going to the gallows tomorrow, and I want to look my best!"

This other human voice reinstated at least a measure of reason to Edward, and he stopped screaming. "I have to do something," he thought. "I can't be eaten by rats! I can't go that way! How undignified!"

"What are you whining about, anyway?" the annoyed prisoner continued to speak. "It's just a dead rat!"

"It's trying to eat me!" Edward screamed, his control slipping quickly. "What do you mean, 'it's just a dead rat'?? Dead rats can...wait, did you say _dead_? As in, dead?" His senses seemed to regain a measure of control, and he peered into the darkness. Squinting hard, he was able to make out the slumped form of a giant rat. His eyes grew wide in amazement. "But...it was alive!" he said. "It bit me! It sniffed my face!"

"Yes, and then you kicked it to death," the prisoner added. "So, it was alive, but only until you killed it. You see how this works?"

Edward frowned. Not only did he not like the tone of this man's voice, but he couldn't believe what he was saying. How could he have killed the rat? All he had done was attempt to flee it. In fact, though he was loath to admit it, he had simply panicked. He could vaguely remember flailing about, and kicking and punching wildly, but nothing that would have been effective.

He straightened up in surprise. "Ha!" he said aloud. "It was me! I kicked it to death!!" He started laughing triumphantly. "Guard!" he shouted. "Guard! It's done! Your rat problem is finished!"

All was silent for several moments, except for Edward's gleeful laughter, and then the bolts of the dungeon door slowly scraped open.

The guard peeked his head in, almost suspiciously, blinked as his eyes adjusted to the dimness, and then said in a tone of surprise, "You killed it!"

"Of course!" Edward snapped, none too pleased by the other man's tone.

"But...but how? It sounded like the rat was killing you!" Edward frowned. "I mean, you were screaming bloody murder in here!"

Edward's frown deepened, and he answered in a very condescending tone, "Well, you clearly do not understand the finer points of psychological warfare, so I will not bother to waste my time in an attempt to enlighten and reform your primitive mindset. Suffice it to say, what you heard was all part of the tricks of the trade -- and, as you can see, very effective tricks at that."

The guard took turns between frowning, glaring, and then frowning again. "Alright, alright," he said at last, "I admit, you did a good job."

"Of course," Edward said. "Now, since it is done, let me out of this dungeon."

Now the guard hesitated. "Well..." he said slowly, "I don't know about that...it's a handy thing to have an exterminator on hand."

Edward's anger boiled at this point. It wasn't enough that this guard had threatened him into coming and left him to what was nearly a terrible death of being eaten by a rat, but now he meant to keep him here?! "Listen you," Edward stated, his eyes flaming, "I suggest you take a good look at that rat, because my speciality isn't limited to rats of the animal variety!"

Now, an observer might have thought that Edward was being extraordinarily brazen and betting that his calculated risk would pay off by winning him his freedom; the truth of the matter was simpler and less grand. Edward was furious, and he was doing what he was best at when angered: very sincerely threatening his opponent, without giving any thought to the fact that he was in no way prepared to back up that threat.

Luck, or the gods, or what have you, were on Edward's side that day, however, because the guard blinked at the verbal onslaught, and then declared hesitantly, "Well, I could just lock the door, couldn't I? You couldn't do anything then, could you?"

"Why don't you just see?" Edward demanded menacingly. "I dare you to try, you lily-livered, tin-suited sack of crap!" This last bit of Edward's bluff -- if a bluff it could be called, because, in the heat of the moment, Edward meant every word he said -- had the beneficial effect of completely demoralizing the guard, who threw open the door and retreated.

"Now, come on," he said as he stood aside, "I was just joking. You know that."

Edward, still furious, considered staying in place and demanding that the coward of a guard return and try, just try, to keep him a prisoner; but then that shred of common sense that managed to save him from situations like this kicked in. Subsequently, Edward made haste to leave the dungeon, leave the castle, and, gathering his belongings and his valet, leave Cheydinhal.


	21. Chapter 21

Dear Brother Clarence:  
Blessings and the mercy of the square root of eighty-one upon you. I write to you in distress, brother. Since the grievous news of our beloved emperor's death, I have heard nothing from the chosen messenger. Baurus -- our brother, who was the last living Blade to see the Emperor -- writes to tell me that His Majesty chose a man, an escaped prisoner, to deliver the amulet to me. He did not say so directly, but his tone made clear his apprehension. I do begin to fear that our Emperor made a most grievous mistake in his last moment of desperation, in entrusting so precious an amulet to an unknown. Pray, good brother, that the 10 minus 1 remember us in these troubled times!  
Yours,  
Brother Jauffre  
-- Letter from Brother Jauffre to a fellow Blade

Chapter Twenty-One

Edward sighed, thinking despondently that, whatever city he came to, he always seemed to end up in the dungeons. "Well," he thought, "at least so far I've been able to get out each time!" Nonetheless, he was none too keen on the idea of returning to the Imperial City. He still remembered the cell he'd been in, and he had no desire to return; and, after all, his mission was that of an assassin -- even if a justified assassin -- and so he was, technically, on the wrong side of the law. Not that, truth to be told, he was ever technically on the right side of the law. After all, even if his prison break had been pseudo-legal, he had fled the scene of the accident with Simplicia, he had struck and robbed Snak gra-Bura, he had illegally killed the murderer Rufio, and he had joined a brotherhood of assassins! "Hard to get less legal than that," he thought, "unless I joined the Thieves Guild too, or something like that."

This idea, that he was not behaving as illegally as he potentially could, and consequently, if caught, would not face as much trouble as he might otherwise, cheered him somewhat, so he continued with a lighter heart.

He and his valet rode in continued silence for several minutes, until, passing through the city gates, the latter spoke. "Sir," he said, "not meaning to put too fine a point on it or anything, but...well, I read the Black Horse Courier, and I did happen to read something about a theft here in the Imperial City...a theft of a horse..."

"Oh?" Edward asked, a sense of trepidation swarming him. "Really?"

"Yes sir," the other man continued, clearly hesitantly. "Well, sir, the thing that really stood out was that this was the theft of a very old and stubborn horse."

"Really?" Edward repeated.

"Yes sir. A horse like yours, sir."

Edward blinked. "Really?"

"Yes sir. And I think, sir, it might be advisable, seeing as how like your horse this horse was, that you do not ride your horse in the city. Otherwise, people might -- preposterously, of course -- assume that you were...well, the thief."

Edward blinked again. The valet's words, as insincere as they had been regarding the other man's belief in his innocence, made sense. "Damn it, man!" he cursed, glancing about him, "Why not mention this _before_ we enter the city? Now how am I supposed to get rid of this stupid horse, in the middle of the city, without attracting too much attention?"

"I have a plan, sir," the valet replied.

Edward rolled his eyes, so thoroughly annoyed that the fact that his valet's plans were almost always good ones made no nevermind to him.

"I will take your horse," the other man said, ignoring the show of displeasure, "and you will take mine. I will bring your horse to the Imperial Watch, and say that I found it abandoned in the woods and, hearing about the theft, assumed that this was probably the stolen horse."

"Well, why don't I just do that? Why switch horses?" Edward asked.

"Because, sir, they might bring me to see Snak gra-Bura."

"Oh, right," Edward said. "But...well, of course, I'm not the thief."

"No sir, of course not. Still, better to let me...take care of the dirty work."

"Yes," Edward agreed, more enthusiastically this time. "No sense me wasting my time on trivial things like that. You can take care of it."

"Yes sir."

"That's what I pay you for!" Edward finished.

The valet coughed. "Oh, about that, sir," he started.

Edward flinched. As of yet, he still hadn't paid his valet any wages. "Later, man, later! We have important business that needs attending to."

"Yes sir."


	22. Chapter 22

He whose name is forgotten,  
We had something to say about him,  
But we're not quite sure what it was,  
Because it seems we've forgotten.

-- Tribute to the Gray Fox

Chapter Twenty-Two

In the end, Edward's valet had taken both horses. It turns out that there was a city ordinance that you could not ride a horse inside the city gates. "Stupid ordinances," Edward thought. "They should make sure people know things like that!"

While Edward, now on foot, set off to find the Marie Elena, his valet set off to stable his own horse, and to return Snak gra-Bura's horse. Neither noticed the cowled figure that had observed their entire conversation, and then took off after Edward's valet.

So it was that Edward, who seemed to lack any sense of direction, headed into the city and, after much exploring, many wrong turns, and infinite retracing of his steps, eventually made his way to the water front. "Ahh," he thought, "the sea! I love the sea!" Breathing deeply -- so deeply, in fact, that he broke into a violent coughing fit -- he walked toward the docks. He smiled as he neared them.

"Pirates, cutthroats, murderers, smugglers, thieves, villains of the worst sort!" he thought admiringly. "I could have ended up working here...how in Oblivion did I end up on the other side?!" He frowned, but remembering his earlier reflections, took solace. "At least," he thought, "I'm still on the wrong side of the law, even if I am working for justice and the greater good or whatever."

With this cheering thought, he focused on finding the Marie Elena. There were two vessels docked in the harbor, and so, having no way to distinguish between them, Edward headed to the ship on his left. "Hmm," he thought as he neared it, "I wonder how you tell what a ship is named?"

At that moment, an ecstatic voice interrupted him from his reverie. "Sir! Sir!"

He turned to see his valet running toward him. Staring in frank surprise at the other man, he asked, "What's the matter with you? Can't you see that I'm busy?"

"Yes sir," the valet replied, coming to a stop and panting heavily. "But -- you'll never believe this, sir! -- but the Grey Fox himself has invited me to join the Thieves Guild!!"

Edward just blinked at first, the words making little impression. "You? The Grey Fox? Why?"

"He heard our conversation, sir, and he said that my loyalty to my friend -- you -- impressed him, and that he needs thieves with honor to join his ranks!"

Edward frowned. "Honor? But why? They're thieves!"

"Oh, yes sir, but good thieves. You see, the Grey Fox is a thief who robs from the rich to give to the poor. The beggars and the unemployed, they're all dependent on him!"

Edward's frown intensified. "What sort of criminal..." he began, but was interrupted.

"Oh, it's very simple, sir. He lives among the poor; he knows what they suffer! He's a Robber from the Hood, so to speak, who robs the rich stuffed shirts to feed the poor and downtrodden."

Edward's frown continued to intensify. "And he asked you, and not me?"

"Yes sir," the valet said, adding quickly, "but I'm sure that's only because he knew you were already busy!"

"Well," Edward shot back, "you're busy too! You work for me!"

"Yes sir," the other man said a bit hesitantly, "but, well, you don't always have need of my services!"

"Yes, but I don't employ you so that you won't be available when I do need you!"

"No sir," the valet agreed. He seemed to hesitate, and then brighten immediately, as if a flash of inspiration hit him. "But one of the perks of being a member of the thieves guild is that I get to sell stolen goods to various fences, since no one else buys them. That means that I can be your door to the fences! I can resell any goods that you come across!"

Edward stared at him, feigning shock. "What do you take me for?!" he demanded. "Do you really assume that I would stoop to robbing people, and reselling their property through you?! And, anyway, you'd probably charge an outrageous fee for the service..."

"No sir!" the valet exclaimed. "Not a penny! It would be my show of appreciation to you for allowing me to take this second job."

Edward frowned, but didn't dismiss the idea outright. After all, it would be good to have an outlet to sell his stolen property. Plus, it would be good if his valet was actually earning money; so far, Edward hadn't made a whole bunch of money, and he seemed to lose more than he earned, anyway -- it was hard to forget the loss of all his swindled gold after his accident with Simplicia. Not only would it be impossible to pay his valet's wages at this rate, but he might not be able to afford basic supplies with a similar stroke of bad luck. "Well," he answered slowly, "I don't want to hamper your prospects...if I was sure that you would be around when I needed you..."

"Oh, yes sir, absolutely sir!" the valet responded.

"Alright," Edward agreed. "You may as well."

In a flurry of profuse thanks, the valet disappeared. Edward sighed. "Damn Gray Fox," he thought. "How dare he ask my servant, and not me? And what is it with these criminals now, anyway?! The assassins go around killing murderers, the thieves go around feeding the poor, and the real bad guys are a disgusting, pathetic lot that no self respecting criminal would want to associate with!" He sighed again. "Criminals these days just aren't what they're cracked up to be..." he thought despondently.


	23. Chapter 23

When in trouble, when in doubt,  
Run in circles, scream and shout.  
-- Edward's motto, borrowed from a popular rhyme

Chapter Twenty-Three

After realizing that he had in fact chosen the wrong ship, and was at the Bloated Float Inn rather than the Marie Elena, Edward sat down to think. It seemed reasonable to him that he take a moment to think through what, exactly, he was going to do. He considered that, so far, he had been fairly successful. He had located the Marie Elena, which is more than he had done fifteen minutes earlier. From there, his next step was simple enough: get inside and locate Gaston. It was at this juncture, however, that things began to grow foggy. What did he do when found Captain Tussaud? Should he say something to him? He smiled at the idea. Something witty, something to show off the brilliance of his masterful mind -- that would be good. "Unfortunately," he thought, "the only one to hear it will be the stupid pirate -- and just before I kill him." Somehow, the idea lost some of its appeal, and he found himself wishing he could have an invisible audience to admire his eloquence and wit.

"Of course," he thought, "I had better think of what I'm going to say...hmm...how about 'Alright, Pirate dog! Time to go to the pound!'...hmm...yes, I like it!" He smiled at his own genius. "Gad, but I am brilliant," he congratulated himself.

At that moment, he heard hinges creek and felt a heavy wooden object impact sharply with his back and behind. He found himself flying forward, and landing face first on the dock in front of him.

He heard someone gasp, and then footsteps run toward him. "Oh, I'm terribly sorry," someone said. "But I didn't see you from inside the inn! You must have been sitting in front of the door!"

"Ash a matter of facsht," Edward replied as he struggled to rise, his lower lip already having swollen to the point that he was finding it difficult to articulate his thoughts, "I wasch."

"That's a dangerous spot to be sitting!" the speaker, who extended his hand to assist him up, said. "You can't be seen from inside, so someone can open the door and smack you with it."

"Oh, really?" Edward asked, grimacing in agony as he finally was able to raise himself to his feet. "You don't shay..."

He saw his inadvertent assailant and eager assistant for the first time now. He was an orc, with large teeth, green skin and not a lot of hair. "I'm Graman gro-Marad," he introduced himself.

"I would shay pleashed to meet you," Edward said, spitting blood out of his mouth, "but shum pleashures go a long way..."

Graman shifted his weight, seeming very apologetic. "Look here, I'm terribly sorry," he repeated. His expression brightened. "Say, maybe I can make it up to you!"

"I doubt it," Edward replied, trying to determine what hurt more -- his swollen and swelling face, his battered and aching back, or his wounded and stinging pride. "Very musch..."

"Well, I work at the inn here, and I'm sure I could get you a room, so that you can rest up for a bit," Graman told him. "And of course we can get you whatever food or drink you need, too."

Edward scowled -- at least, as best as he could when his face was inflated and stiff -- at the eager orc. Nonetheless, though he hated to lessen Graman's guilt, the offer seemed like a good one. "Alright," he said. "Schince I'm nearly dead, I schuppose I have no choisch..."

The orc flinched at his words, but gently led him into the inn. If Edward had ached any less, he would have pretended to be more injured and sore than he already was; as it was, however, he hurt so badly that he could not imagine feigning further injury.

Graman got the door for him, led him inside, spoke a few hurried words to the publican, an Altmer named Ormil, and then led him to a room off to the left. On the way, Edward noted that the inn had a fair selection of foods, and a goodly supply of alchol.

"Now," Graman said as he opened the door and stepped aside to let Edward into the room, "is there anything that I can get you?"

"Schomething to dull this pain," Edward moaned. "Do you have any liquor?"

"Oh, yes, of course," Graman answered. "I'll get it right away."

"And!" Edward exclaimed, stopping the orc in his tracks. "And schome food...lotsh of food."

"Food?" the orc asked. "Are you sure you'll be able to eat?"

"Of coursh!" Edward snapped. "I have to eat to...to regain my shtrength!"

"Oh, yes," Graman replied. "I see."

"And bring lotsh of alcohol," Edward called after the orc. "I'm in scho much pain!"


	24. Chapter 24

The gods help them whose servants help them.  
-- Scripture of the Square Root of Eighty-One, translation funded by the Coalition of the Noble Born

Chapter Twenty-Four

Edward stirred groggily. The unpleasant sensation of rocking, back and forth, back and forth, was interrupting his dream -- and it was too beautiful a dream to be interrupted!

There he was, atop a glorious mountain of gold, reaching forward, forward, forward, just about to sieze the largest diamond he had ever seen; and then he would rock backwards, just out of reach. Barely catching his balance before he tumbled down the mountainside -- which seemed to grow steeper with every rocking movement -- he would just steady himself before tumbling forward, just past the diamond. Again, he would be just out of reach of the gem, and would have only enough time to steady himself before he'd find himself plunging backwards.

Finally, unwillingly, angrily, he opened one eye, and then another. As the shadows of dreamland fled, brilliant sunlight assailed his eyes. He blinked rapidly, trying to remember where he was. The last thing he could remember was imbibing an unbelievable amount of really bad wine and beer, and eating more than a little food, before deciding to lay down for just a moment to rest. It had been late in the afternoon then, with dusk settling in on the land.

"Land!" he thought. "That's right -- I'm not on land, I'm on that ship, the Floated Bloat...Boated Foat...Bloated..." His mind froze, mid-thought. The rocking -- it wasn't just in his dream! He really was rocking back and forth; or, rather, _he_ wasn't rocking, but the boat was rocking!

He blinked in amazement. There must be a terrible storm outside, for the boat to be rocking that hard in port!

He frowned. No, it couldn't be storming out -- there was far too much sunlight streaming into his window for there to be a storm outside.

He knit his eyebrows in concentration. If the boat was rocking, and it wasn't because of a storm, what did that mean?

He yelped in fear as the answer struck him. "Ye gods! We've set sail! Nobody told me?! Where are we headed? Will I ever get back? What's going on?" Then, a more terrible thought struck him. "What if...they deliberately didn't tell me? What if they're slavers, and they plan on selling me for a fortune on some distant shore? Is that why they offered me a room, and so much alcohol? To intoxicate me, so that they could get me away silently?" His face grew pallid. "Slavers can probably sum people up easily...they probably realized that they had a goldmine in me...after all, my skills and brilliance would be perfectly suited for anything...scholar, warrior, inventor, gladiator, anything." His train of thought shifted. "Or...or they could be taking me to some far away, exotic land, where they'll sell me to an empress or sultaness, who has been looking for a man like me for years!" His mind filled with images of his marriage to a rich and powerful -- not to mention insanely beautiful -- woman, who had searched the entire globe before finding someone good enough to marry, and make the emperor or sultan of her kingdom -- that someone being him, of course. "Well," he thought, "this might not be too bad after all...I could deal with ruling an empire or a sultanate...is that a word? Well, whatever...and, of course, it wouldn't hurt to have a gorgeous, brilliant woman absolutely, madly in love with me...particularly when she's deliciously rich...and powerful..." He smiled at the idea. He was a sort of Joseph, he decided, except that _he _wasn't stupid enough to refuse a beautiful woman, her powerful empire, and a life of ease and luxury. Yes, he had certainly been in worse predicaments, he concluded.

A loud, brusque thumping on the passage near his door roused him from his reverie. Starting, he crept to his door, wincing as he did so -- he still smarted from his run in with the inn door the day before. He listened for a moment and, hearing nothing, opened the door a sliver. Peering outside, he recoiled in fright as a man outside his door started in surprise. Here was a man he had never seen before!

In unison, both men asked, "Who are you?!"

"I'm Edward," Edward answered, "and I'm sleeping at the inn!"

"I'm Lynch," the other man replied, "and I'm going to lynch you!"

While the Nord laughed at his own joke, Edward thought fast, and slammed his door shut, jamming the bolt in place. "Damn it, damn it, damn it!" he cursed. "They're going to kill me, not sell me to a gorgeous Sultaness to become a rich, powerful and adored Sultan!"

Lynch, meanwhile, was banging at the door, demanding, "Come out, you coward! Come out and get what's coming to you!"

"Why do you want to kill me?!" Edward shouted back. "I don't even know you! I have no idea how we even got afloat! I'm innocent!"

"We're afloat because we set the ship afloat -- and by we, I mean me and the other Blackwater Brigands. And innocence is no excuse -- you're a dead man! And after I finish you, I'm going to finish the stupid orc we locked up!" With this, the Nord renewed his assault on the door.

Edward flinched as every blow landed. The door was strong, but not that strong. It would break soon, and then he -- slightly hung over and completely unarmed -- would have to fight a fully armed brigand. Then, an idea hit him.

Creeping toward the door, cringing every time the wood shivered with a new blow, he seized the handle and the bolt; then, in one fluid movement, he pulled the bolt back and turned the handle just as a new kick was sent forward. Lynch, not meeting with the resistance that he had anticipated, tumbled forward and into the room.

At the same time, Edward sprung forward, and pulled the door closed behind him. Now, holding the handle firmly and bracing himself with his feet against the door jam, he waited for the Nord to attempt to leave the room. He didn't wait long; in an instant, he felt a strong pull from inside. But Edward was ready, and using his legs as much as his arms, he managed to put up a good fight for several minutes.

However, the Nord was considerably stronger than he was, and, even though Edward was fighting for his life, eventually his strength succumbed. His hands slipped from the handle, the door went flying backwards, and he careened into the floor with a horrifically painful crash. Expecting his opponent to rush out and murder him at any moment, Edward lay in place, his eyes closed, grimacing and praying to all the gods he didn't believe in for some sort of miraculous intervention. He promised everything he could think of, from eternal servitude to the sacrifice of his first born children if only they would spare him.

As he lay there, inwardly groveling and praying, it seemed that an eternity of time passed. He had always heard that time stood still when you knew you were about to die, but he honestly never expected it to take this long. In fact, laying in place, aching from his fall, his eyes pressed tightly shut, Edward almost began to wish that his killer would hurry up and finish the job, rather than leaving him in this uncomfortable limbo.

The thump of a heavy footfall overhead, sounding very much in real time, startled Edward, and he opened his eyes. Amazed that there was no sword wielding murderer directly over him, Edward blinked. Surely, this hadn't been a dream, had it? Was he still in his bed, where he had laid down the night before?

He looked around. No, he wasn't in his bed, and, no, this hadn't been a dream. He was lying on his back in a hallway, staring up at the ceiling above, and the door to his room lay in front of him. Cautiously, fearfully, he raised himself upward, looking for his would-be murderer.

Not seeing him immediately, he drew himself up further still. Then, he saw the man. He was lying in a heap opposite him, blood pouring from his head. Over his body, there was a telling patch of red on the corner of the window frame.

Edward stood now, and walked carefully toward the body. "Are you dead?" he asked, not entirely expecting an answer. When none came, he kicked the body, just to make sure. It didn't move. Edward smiled. "Yup." With this, he set about looting the corpse. After all, he needed a weapon; plus, this guy's clothes were pretty nice, so he likely had some money on him, he reasoned.


	25. Chapter 25

News flash from the Imperial Docks!  
In a shocking bit of news, the well known inn, the Floating Bloat, has vanished from harbor! As of this writing, the cause of this disappearance is unknown, although speculation has reached this correspondent that an unknown man was seen sitting on the stoop outside the inn door the evening of the vanishing, behaving in a sullen, peculiar manner. Whether this man is involved in the disappearance or not is purely a matter of speculation, but the City Watch has circulated a description of him in hopes of locating him for questioning. He is described as being sulky, with baby-like features, and a deviant air. If you see this man, please alert the nearest officer.  
-- Black Horse Courier, Special News Bulletin

Chapter Twenty-Five

After thoroughly looting Lynch's corpse -- which was not a particularly challenging job, since he only had a sword, a key and a few gold on him -- Edward had managed, with much difficulty, to shove his body underneath the bed. "Good thing he's dead," he thought, surveying his handiwork, "because I heard things snapping as I was doing that..." Standing, he felt pain shoot through his body. "Oh gods," he groaned. "It was me??"

Slowly, painfully, straightening out, Edward felt anger surge through him. This was ridiculous! The only reason that he was even in this damned floating inn was because of that stupid orc smashing a door into him; now he faced death at the hands of a band of murderous brigands, for gods know what! He paused as these thoughts ran through his mind "That stupid orc!" he repeated. "That's right! He's onboard, and alive! Lynch said he was going to kill him after he killed me, so he can't be dead yet!" Edward smiled. "All I have to do is let that idiot out, and he can take care of the rest of these pirates, and I can go home!" His smile had turned into a broad grin, and he turned for the door eager to find and free the orc. But he stopped short.

"Wait a minute," he thought. "I might as well see if there's anything worth stealing, since I'm here...now that my valet is a member of the thieves guild, he can sell it for me...and, anyway, after all I've suffered, I'm entitled to a little restitution, aren't I?" With this justification in mind, Edward began to search the room for valuables.

In a few moments, he stopped disgustedly. The room was quite bare, with only a few pieces of well worn furniture -- all too large to lift, much less carry -- and an old clay pot. "Well," he thought hesitantly, surveying the pot, "I suppose it might be worth something, especially if I cleaned it up." It seemed an injustice to leave the room without at least taking something, so he at last decided on taking the pot.

Lifting it, he observed that there was something inside it. Peering into the pot, he saw a small bag of rough cloth. "Hmm..." he thought, taking out the bag and opening it. His eyes bulged as he did so, and he laughed with glee. There, inside that shabby bag, was a handful of beautiful, sparkling gems!

Pocketing the jewels, and still determined not to let his pot go, Edward surveyed the room for some means of carrying his pot -- and anything else that he might pick up along the way. At first, he found nothing, but eventually his eyes lit upon the worn pillow and its case. His gleeful smile returning, Edward ripped the pillow out of the case and then, reverently, placed his first stolen item -- an old, shabby pot -- inside the case. He then tied the pillow case to his belt, exited his room, and shut the door behind him.

Not knowing how many other brigands there might be on the level that he was on -- but imagining that it was unlikely that there were any more, as no one had come to aid Lynch despite the ruckus he'd made -- he explored carefully, keeping a constant eye out for loot, but finding little that even he could justify lugging about with him.

At last, however, he found the orc's prison.

"It's you!" Graman shouted, exuberantly. "We're saved!"

Despite all the aggravation he had felt at this orc, Graman's tone managed to placate him somewhat. "Well," he said, "these brigands are mad if they think they can take me down without a fight!"

Graman nodded vigorously. "Quite right!"

"Now," Edward declared grandly, "I suppose we'd better get you out of this cage!"

The orc nodded again, saying, "Yes, the guard, Lynch he calls himself, has the key."

Edward frowned, feeling rather disappointed by the revelation; he had hoped that the key he'd found would open some amazing treasure, not just the key to the cage where the dumb orc was being held. Sighing, he said, "Not anymore."

"You mean, you already took him out?" Graman asked, clearly impressed.

"Of course," Edward returned haughtily.


	26. Chapter 26

Pirates roam the high seas,  
Bandits haunt the lonely paths,  
Assassins traverse the quiet halls,  
And fools infest the forsaken empire.  
-- Lament of the Ninth, decrying the desolation of the empire after his demise

Chapter Twenty-Six

Edward crept along, cringing every time his already heavy loot bag impacted with a wall, or a crate, or the floor. Despite the fact that he only had managed to find a few items, they were all large, and mostly heavy pottery -- and they made a fair amount of noise when bumped.

"Damn that orc!" he thought to himself. "He should be the one doing this, not me!" His happy plan of Graman slaying the remainder of the pirates whilst he hid safely in the background had vanished after he freed the orc, and saw that his ally had been badly wounded in the original scuffle with the brigands. So badly wounded, in fact, that he could not fight them a second time.

"I'll be able to bring the ship back to harbor," he'd said, "but I'm afraid I won't be able to help you take care of them."

"Damn him!" Edward cursed again. "If only they killed the bastard the first time!" Then, he checked himself. "Except that I need him to get home...that is, if I survive this...which I probably won't anyway." He frowned darkly. "If they do kill me, I hope they get that damned orc afterwards!"

Creeping up a ladder, Edward stopped as one of the pots in his pillowcase hit particularly loudly against the rungs. Sighing, he pulled himself up carefully, hid behind a crate, and sifted through his bag. He would have to get rid of that pot, he determined sadly, or else he would certainly get caught. Seeing the offending piece of pottery, he pulled it out. And then froze.

Footsteps were coming his way. He didn't dare to move, except to hunker down lower, so that he would be completely hidden behind the crates. A head came into view, and then a body. Edward grew still, not even daring to breathe now. Still the figure approached, stopping only when it was nearly on top of him, directly on the other side of the pile of crates. Edward was still holding his breath.

The figure turned, but stood still to survey the passage. Edward tried to concentrate on the blood coursing through his veins, and not his ever more desperate need of fresh oxygen. Still the figure did not budge.

Finally, his vision blurring and his lungs readying to explode, Edward did the only thing he could think of. He jumped upwards, his grip tightening on the pot he held, and brought said pottery into sharp contact with the brigand's skull; then he collapsed downwards, inhaling and exhaling deeply several times.

He had been so desperate for air that he had not noticed the pirate collapse, and he was only vaguely aware of the fact that he was not already dead at the hands of a furious killer. Only when he had entirely regained his breath did he become aware of the fact that his plan had, in fact succeeded, and that his foe was felled.

Then, he groaned despondently. "My pot!" he murmured. "It's completely shattered!"

Edward spent several minutes pouring over the shards of pottery, wracking his brain for various means of putting them back together, but he eventually abandoned the scheme. There were too many pieces, he decided, and, even if he could glue them back together, there was no way he could conceal the breakage, not even by painting over it. "No," he thought dejectedly, "I'll just have to call it a loss."

With this mournful resolution made, Edward continued on his way to the upper deck. Once there, he looked around. Everything was surprisingly quiet. Too quiet, considering that they were at sea. "Ye gods!" he exclaimed out loud. "Who is manning this darn ship?!"

As if in answer to his question, a sound issued forth from the captain's cabin. The next moment, the door opened and a woman stepped out. Edward stared, enchanted. Despite the fact that she was clad in full body armor, Edward was immediately impressed by her beauty. "Hello gorgeous!" was all he could think of to say, and, judging by the fact that she was drawing her sword and approaching in a very menacing manner, it hardly seemed appropriate.


	27. Chapter 27

Dear Armand,  
I'm writing to caution you in regards to the latest addition to our guild, a brilliant, loyal young man who you will meet shortly. My reason for cautioning you, however, is that he is currently employed as a valet for a pompous, ridiculous fool. Our new initiate's sense of loyalty to his wastrel of an employer may prevent him from seeing this, but I see it plainly. Please keep this in mind, should our new guild mate make any recommendations about his employer.  
Yours in stealth,  
The Gray Fox

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Edward wasn't quite sure what to do. Here was a woman -- a beautiful woman, who his first thought had been to ask out! -- charging at him, ready to kill. What did he do? He hadn't so much as opened his mouth to speak to her yet, and she already wanted to kill him! What should he do? How should he respond?

Now, to be fair, his hesitancy wasn't borne of a misplaced sense of chivalry -- or chivalry at all; rather, his hesitancy came of a paralyzing fear. His attacker's cold, unruffled air seemed to freeze his marrow, and he was fixed to the spot where he stood, unable to move to defend himself or even escape the onslaught.

Most opportunely, however, a voice called out, "Hold, you there!"

It was the brigand's turn to freeze, and just before her blade met with Edward's body.

Edward was so dazed that he hardly heard the thumping behind him or noticed the orc come hobbling up, armored and wielding a heavy sword; likewise, Ormil's entrance mostly passed him by. He was too busy staring at the sword mere inches from his face to notice much else.

"You didn't think those bonds would hold me, did you?" Ormil demanded.

"Or those wounds slow me down?" Graman asked.

"My band!" the brigand exclaimed. "Where are they?!"

"Dead!" Edward declared, finding his voice -- and also his legs, for he stepped back, out of reach of her blade, very quickly. "I killed them!"

The brigand's eyes bulged, and she shot angry glances around her. Sensing that she was hopelessly outnumbered, however, she said, "Are you going to kill me?"

Edward, furious at her and her band's treatment of him, was about to scream, "Yes!" But, before he was able to speak, Ormil replied. "Not if you cooperate...hand over your sword, and we'll deliver you to the Imperial Watch."

The woman scoffed, but did as she was told. Ormil led her to the same cell in which Graman had been imprisoned, while Edward turned to the orc. "Who the heck are these people? And why did they hijack our ship?"

Graman sighed. "Well," he said, "business was not going so well for our inn...so Ormil made up a story about having a fantastic treasure onboard to attract patrons...these fools decided to hijack the ship in order to search it without interruption."

Edward's eyes gleamed. "Fantastic treasure?" he repeated.

"Yes," Graman nodded. "It was a stupid story, but, apparently, some people are dumb enough to fall for anything."

Edward smiled inwardly, but changed the topic. "Well, to be perfectly frank with you, when I saw that the ship was afloat, I figured that you and Ormil must be some sort of slavers, who had lured me on board so that you could sell me at some foreign port."

The orc stared at him.

Edward shrugged, somewhat abashed; he thought it best to leave out the bit of his reverie dealing with being sold to an sultaness, becoming a sultan, and all that. "Well, you never know..." Then, clearing his throat, he said, "Aren't you supposed to be manning this stupid ship? I don't want to spend the rest of my life on a Floated Bloat!"

Graman stared at him for a moment, and then nodded. "Right you are," he said.

Edward, meanwhile smiled inwardly. "_That orc can say what he likes_," he thought, "_but he can't pull the wool over my eyes...there's treasure on this ship, and a lot of it! And I'm going to be the one to find it!_"


	28. Chapter 28

Have the gods succumbed to senility,  
To promote and protect such inability?  
Have the planets strayed from their orbits,  
To favor and empower such a king of nitwits?  
-- Ode to Edward, II

Chapter Twenty-Eight

By time the Bloated Float pulled into harbor, Edward was exhausted and not a little cranky. His search efforts had been futile, of course, because, as Graman had said, the treasure for which he searched didn't exist. Rather than admitting this to himself, however, Edward concluded that the pirates must have already found it, and found a way to get it off ship.

Armil offered to let him spend another evening in the inn, but he quickly refused. There was no way that he wanted to spend an evening in the room where someone had been killed, nor did he want to risk waking up and finding that he was afloat again. "Henceforth," he determined, "I sleep on land, and land only!"

So, exhausted, ornery, unprepared, and lugging around a pillow case containing a few old pieces of pottery, two skeins of yarn, a pair of shears and some torches, Edward set forth for the Marie Elena.

When he arrived at the ship, it was dark. There were a few torches lighting the main deck, which was patrolled by a gang of none-too-friendly looking pirates.

Edward found a barrel on a pier opposite the ship, and sat down to rest and think. How was he going to get onto this ship? The main entrance didn't look like a very good one...if the brigand gal he'd run into earlier had been mean, these charmers put her to shame; hard, grizzled men and a fearsome chieftain, these seemed like the last people Edward wanted to run into. There was, interestingly enough, a stack of crates near the gangway that Edward suspected were meant to be loaded into the ship. It wouldn't be too difficult, he mused, to sneak over there, pry open a crate, and jump inside. That way, he could stowaway onto the ship, and then take the Captain by surprise.

"No, they'd probably expect something like that," Edward decided, dismissing the idea. "I have to do something bold, something unexpected, something glorious and worthy of me!" He paused his mental monologue, and then added, "And something that won't get me killed."

His brow creased in thought as he surveyed the ship again. He had already dismissed the only two means of entrance...so how on earth was he going to get in?! Then his eyes lit up. On the opposite side of the ship was a balcony -- with a door that had to lead to the Captain's cabin; and it looked like it was within jumping distance.

His eyes aglow with excitement, Edward headed to the nearest point of the pier opposite the captain's quarters. Mounting the ledge, he shifted his pillow case of worthless treasures to one side, inhaled deeply, exhaled, inhaled again, and then leapt forward.

No sooner than had he left solid ground did he regret his action; all at once the brilliance of his strategy was replaced in his mind with a surety that he would miss the balcony and end up in the harbor below, dragged down, down, down by the weight of his weaponry, armor and loot bag.

Even as visions of drowning flooded his senses, Edward felt his right knee impact sharply with the ship's stern, and his left elbow smash into the balcony. "Gods damn it!" he cursed, clasping onto the balcony for dear life with his right arm. "_Why the Oblivion do they call it the 'funny bone'?!_"

Wheezing in agony, he managed to make some use of his left arm, and swing it over the balcony. With both arms thus straddling the ship, he was, with difficulty, able to pull himself over the side of the rail and onto the ship. He promptly sat down to recover from his success.

Fifteen minutes later, still sore but somewhat more collected, he tried the door to the captain's cabin. It was locked. By now, his temper was flaring, and he loosed a torrent of cuss words at his intended victim, finishing with, "Why can't the no-good SOB just get what's coming to him, without making it so damned difficult for me?"

Kicking at nothing in particular in frustration, Edward lurched forward as his foot caught on the "Unwelcome" mat outside the captain's door. He careened into the door, barely having time to shield his face with his hands and thereby prevent a face-to-portal collision. Straightening himself up, he kicked again, but this time with a definite target in mind. "Stupid mat!" he cursed, flinging the mat into the balcony railing.

All at once he paused, glancing from the mat to the planks at his feet. He had noted a glint, very faint in the torch light, but a glint nonetheless. "Did someone drop a coin?" he thought greedily as he bent down to find the source of his observation.

He frowned, his hand coming in contact with a long, skinny metal object. "_A key?_" he thought disgustedly, lifting the object to examine it. Sure enough, it was a key. Edward sighed a long, unhappy sigh. Of all the luck...not only was he stuck outside with no chance to get inside, but even his hope at a meager conciliatory coin had proved vain. He lifted the key, intending to chuck it into the water, but froze. "_Wait a minute!_" he thought. "_What if this is the key to the captain's door?"_

With hands so eager that they trembled, he tried to insert the key; it bounced off the lock, it was so large. "_Damn!_" he thought. "_That's not it either._" Again, he readied to chuck the key into the sea, and again stopped. "Oh...I had it backwards," he realized, flushing a little as he did so. "No wonder it couldn't even go in..." He sighed, flipped the key around, and tried again.

This time, much to his relief, it fit perfectly. Turning the key, he heard the door unlock.


	29. Chapter 29

Wreaking havoc where he goes,  
Leaving destruction in his wake,  
Making trouble for those he knows,  
How much more can the empire take?  
-- Musings of the Ninth

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Edward was inside the captain's quarters, and the captain was nowhere to be seen. Truth to be told, Edward was strangely relieved. He still wasn't sure how he was going to kill the dreaded pirate, and he explained away his relief at not finding him around by saying that the pirate's absence gave him an opportunity to plan his attack.

These ideas were soon pushed from Edward's mind, however, as he looked around the cabin he'd entered. His eyes sparkled as he saw the finely laid out table, and its ornate silverware. "_Ye gods!_" he thought, "_I'm rich!_"

Hastening to the table, he proceeded to scoop all the silverware and fine plates he saw into his pillow case. Then he proceeded to loot the foods throughout the cabin, noting with particular glee two fine bottles of wine. He also noted a book, "The Fall of the Snow Prince"; he considered taking this, but decided against it. "Books are worthless anyway."

Then he stopped, his eyes resting on a small but charming plant, that he'd heard called Ninroot. "_Sooooo pretty,_" he thought, heading toward it. _"Soooooo pretty!" _He reached forward to touch its leaves; they were very soft. He smiled, drawing closer. A delicious aroma, indefinable but something like all the foods that he most liked, assailed his nostrils, and his eyes widened in surprise. Was that smell from that beautiful little plant?

It was! That delightful aroma, reminiscent of all manner of fine delicacies, was emanating from that little Ninroot! All at once, Edward was moved by an impulse to eat the plant he admired so much. Without even thinking about it, he seized the stem, uprooted the plant, and proceeded to chew it up and swallow it.

It tasted every bit as good as it looked, and all of a sudden Edward felt very lightheaded. Blinking, he felt himself staggering forward, looking for a seat. He felt strangely weak and tired and sick, but somehow good all the same -- right up until the moment that he collapsed.

Half an hour later, Edward was able to collect himself. The plant, he realized, must have been some sort of poison; Ninroot, apparently, wasn't very good for you. He sighed.

At that moment, he heard the creak of a bolt on the other side of the room. His heart froze. "_It must be the pirate_," he thought. "_He must be coming back!_" Then another thought assailed him. "_And he's bound to notice that everything's missing!"_

Edward made an instantaneous and desperate decision: he would hide under the pirate's bed. "_He'll never think to look there,_" he thought, scrambling for the bed. Unfortunately, he was too late.

The door opened, and Captain Tussaud entered and spotted him immediately. "Hello!" he cried. "Who in the name of Davy Jones is this?!"

Edward, who was half underneath the bed, pulled his head and shoulders out, stood up sneezing -- Gaston Tussaud apparently was no fan of cleaning under his bed, as there was years worth of dust underneath his -- and stared at the pirate. Then, his courage returned. "Alright Pound, time to meet the Dog!" he declared as threateningly as he could muster. Then he paused. "Wait," he said, "that's wrong...I meant, 'Alright dog, time to meet the pound!'"

Captain Tussaud stared at him blankly for a few moments, and then burst into uproarious laughter.

Edward frowned and flushed. Alright, so he had made a tiny mistake; it wasn't very nice of this stinking pirate to mock him like that!

As if in response to Edward's expression, the pirate laughed even more uproariously, and without ceasing.

"Cut it out already!" Edward demanded after a few minutes of non-stop laughter. "Prepare to meet your doom, pirate scum!"

Although Edward had hardly thought it possible, the pirate's laughter grew in intensity. His dancing eyes were almost buried underneath his cheeks, and his mouth was one gigantic grin.

Just as he had almost lost patience, and was about to attack the other man, Edward started. The pirate's face had gone from ruddy mirth to pallid shock; his hand clutched at his heart, and he stood frozen like a stone for several moments. Then his eyes rolled back in his head, and he fell forward with a tremendous thud.

Edward blinked, not quite sure what had happened. Then, slowly, timidly, he approached the pirate, and prodded him with a kick to the shoulders. The mass did not budge, but remained quite still.

_"Dear me!_" Edward thought. "_He's dead! But how?!_" Then he remembered how the other man had clutched his heart. "A heart attack?" he wondered, frowning.

At that moment, a colossal banging at the door roused him from his reflections with a start. A gruff voice demanded, "Cap'n? You alright, sir?" Silence followed, and Edward was not sure what to do. Then, "We're coming in, sir!"

Edward didn't need a second warning. He took to his heels, toppling everything that lay in his path, including the captain's writing table and lit candles, and made his way to the balcony. Shifting his now extraordinarily heavy pillowcase behind him, he made a running leap for the pier.

He landed on the stone with a smash and a rush of agony in his elbows and knees that replaced any memory of the pain he'd felt in leaping onto the ship.

He lay utterly dazed and in a state of semi-consciousness for several minutes. Then, groaning and only vaguely aware of shouts and a peculiar cackling noise behind him, he drew himself up. "It must be almost morning," he observed, noting that the pier was illuminated in a reddish glow. Turning toward the Marie Elena, he was frozen in place as he saw that the entire vessel was engulfed in flames.


	30. Chapter 30

Of fools and thieves we sings,  
Who come and take our things,  
Robbing from the beggars and poor,  
Always wanting more and more.  
-- Imperial City beggars' song, after a recent rash of robberies against the homeless

Chapter Thirty

Edward and his valet had remained in the Imperial City for a few weeks. Ostensibly, this delay was a show of Edward's kindness to his faithful retainer, so that the latter could pursue his thieving missions, but realistically it was a chance for the former to recover from his various injuries.

Which isn't to say, of course, that Edward sat about lazily doing nothing the entire time they were in the city; no indeed! He only spent _most _of it lazing about; but the few hours a day every couple of days that he felt an urge of ambition (or the pang of jealousy, in comparing his servant's extremely successful endeavors to his own less notable ones), he would try his hand at thieving. So it was that there was not a beggar in the city who had not noticed something missing when he returned to his bedroll; so it was that there was not a church or chapel nearby without a story of something vanishing; so it was that the story of a strange pilgrim who carried a heavy, worn bag and traveled throughout the city leaving a trail of gems and cheap silverware behind him was born.

Near the end of their stay, Edward had learnt that his valet's fence was not in the Imperial City, but in Bruma. This had angered Edward, who had no desire to travel to a hub of barbarians, as he termed the Nord city. This in turn prompted his valet to volunteer to take the goods himself and return in a week's time with their payment.

Edward had approved this solution, and so relinquished his treasure horde -- only after meticulously listing out every item, and preparing a copy of the list for himself and his valet, along with space for his valet to record how much each item had sold for. Then, having only one horse between them, they had had to rent another horse to transport Edward's sizable stash. Edward had grumbled, but eventually forked over the 40 gold necessary for the rental.

Now, six and a half days later, Edward waited eagerly for his valet to return. The minutes seemed to drag by like hours as he awaited the arrival of his horde of gold, but, finally, he saw his valet from his hotel window. Racing down the stairs, two steps at a time, he rushed out to meet the other man.

"You're back!" he shouted exuberantly.

"Yes sir," the valet replied, smiling.

"Excellent, excellent! And how was your journey?" he asked, thinking it best not to appear too terribly eager, despite the fact that he was, in truth, that eager.

"Oh, very good sir. The mountains were a bit of rough going, particularly for your horses...yours particularly seemed hardly to be able to move under all your stuff, but he made it eventually. And then we did have a run-in with wolves as we neared the Jerall mountains, but that wasn't as exciting as our run-in with the bandits. You'll never believe what happened, but -"

"Yes, yes," Edward interrupted, unable to contain himself any longer. "I don't care about any of that. I just want to know about my loot!"

The valet cleared his throat, looked rather uncomfortable, and declared, "We'd better go in before discussing that, sir."

Edward protested, but the other man was unmovable, so at last he assented, complaining all the while. Once seated in their quarters at the inn, Edward repeated his query. "So, what about my loot? How much did I make?"

"Well, sir, I'm afraid that didn't turn out so well," the valet returned.

"Didn't turn out so well??" Edward demanded, his eyes coloring in suspicion. "What do you mean?"

"Well, sir, your haul didn't sell for as much as...well, as much as we might hope."

Edward's suspicion was now full blown; he was sure that his valet had either been gypped by a conniving fence, or was attempting to gyp him of his well deserved profits. "How much is 'not as much'?"

"Well, sir," the valet replied, shifting very uncomfortably in his seat, "35 gold."

Edward's eyes nearly bulged out of his head, and he began gesticulating wildly, finding it very difficult to put his fury to words.

"I have the complete rundown of everything," his valet hastened to add, "just like you said." Reaching into a leather bag at his side, he pulled out the piece of paper. "You see, most of the things you had, sir, no fence will buy...yarn...shears...things like that. So I had to find alternate buyers. I found a clothes maker for your yarn, and, after a lot of finagling, convinced her to buy it. Turns out that people either make their own yarn or trade it for goods," he explained.

Edward blinked stupidly, trying to understand, but having difficulty. He had collected such a glorious collection of yarn, of so many shades and colors, so many weights and materials, how could someone not buy it? "How much?" he managed to articulate. "How much did you get for it?"

The valet cleared his throat, shifted uncomfortably again, and replied, "Well sir, I was able to convince her to give me 5 gold for it."

Edward grasped at his heart, certain that such news would stop its beating. "Five gold?!" he breathed. "Five gold, for my lovely horde?!"

"Yes sir, I'm afraid so," the valet answered.

"What about my pottery? And my shears? What about all the parchment? The silverware? The dinner sets?"

The valet shifted again. "Well, as I say, sir, it's all meticulously recorded, as you requested. But, regarding the particulars, the story was the same with the shears. No one is interested in buying them. I eventually found a metal worker who agreed to purchase the lot to melt down, but there was no one else interested."

"And how much?" Edward asked, afraid to know the answer.

The valet sighed. "Five gold, sir."

Edward's eyes bulged again. He had sweated, slaved, persevered lugging around pound upon pound of metal shears, day after day, for a mere measly five gold??

"And," the valet hurried on, "the pottery you had was in...well, very poor condition, sir, and nobody was really interested, except..." Here he trailed off, and seemed almost afraid to continue.

"Except?" Edward demanded. "Except who??"

"Well, sir, a health inspector happened to be passing by one day as I was trying to make a sale, and he noticed one of your pots...it was particularly dirty and unpleasant. He insisted on performing a test on it, and turns out it was covered in some rather disgusting decay. So he...well, he confiscated the whole collection of pottery, and charged a 15 gold fee for the cost of proper disposal."

This news was too much for Edward, who sagged back into his chair despairingly.

"But don't worry sir," the valet interjected, "I paid for it out of my own profits."

Edward glared at him. "Profits?!" he demanded. "You said I made 35 gold -- that's less than it cost me to rent a horse to get the stuff there! -- and you made profits?!"

The valet cleared his throat. "Well, a little, sir."

"How much is a little?" Edward demanded, his eyes blazing.

The valet shifted. "Well, sir, I can't remember exactly..."

Edward rose, inarticulate but furious, gesturing wildly and demanding, in broken, rather profane, language, to be answered.

"Well, a little over a thousand gold," the valet finally confessed.

Edward fell backwards into his seat, stunned. This man, his servant -- his lowly servant! -- had made almost thirty times as much as him! "But you had so little!" Edward protested. "My horse was loaded down, and yours just had a small bag on it!"

"Yes sir, but I found some very valuable items."

Edward glared at him. "Where is my list?!" he demanded. "Give it to me!"

His valet hastened to comply. Edward scanned the list.

Yarn (20 lbs) - 5 gold  
Shears (150 lbs) - 5 gold  
Pottery (20 pieces) - (-15 gold, paid by me)  
Parchment (5000 sheets) - 2 gold  
Paintbrushes (150) - 1 gold  
Dinnerware (100 pieces) - 20 gold  
Artwork (5 pieces) - 2 gold

Total 35 gold (not counting fine)

Edward started to cry.


	31. Chapter 31

Their busy days and a hundred ways,  
Watch the world continue on its course  
Though the promise looms of darker days  
But, oh, things will get so much worse...  
-- Mehrunes Dagon, contemplating the future

Chapter Thirty-One

Edward had sulked for the rest of the day, refusing to acknowledge his valet's existence. He had tried to convince himself that his servant had cheated him, but, this failing, he had determined to simply ignore the man. When the valet tactfully absented himself, rather than feeling relieved, Edward felt even angrier. Not only had the man most unfairly outdone him, but now he removed himself so as to avoid the well-deserved wrath he should be showered in!  
When Edward at last settled in to sleep, he found that sleep eluded him. He was angry, sulky and unsure of how to avenge himself on his servant -- and the latter tormented his mind for many hours. At last, however, he settled on a plan.

He rose early the next morning, paid his tab, packed his bags without waking his valet, and exited the inn. For a minute, he considered stealing his servant's horse, but decided against it; not that he would have objected to robbing the valet, to be sure, but he couldn't stand the idea of depending on anything belonging to "that man".

Therefore, bright and early, Edward set out on his own, heading for Cheydinhal. After all, he had successfully completed his assignment, and he had a payment to collect. "I have my own stuff to do," he thought, "and I've already wasted enough time pandering to the needs of that ridiculous servant of mine...ex-servant!"

With a grim smile, he decided that his disappearance would be the best possible punishment for the wayward valet. "And," he couldn't help admitting to himself with a sense of guilty pleasure, "he'll never see a penny's worth of pay from me!" Although this tended to tarnish the otherwise stainless revenge, his practical side won out over the idealistic side; which is to say that his quest for pure vengeance, at least as he defined it, was second to his miserliness.

The beauty of the cruel deprivation of his company waned, however, as he trudged along his way. The morning was warm, and promised to grow hotter, and he was not terribly fond of exercise as it was, much less so such a long trudge as he was now embarked on. Huffing, puffing, sighing, sweating and feeling terribly sorry for himself, Edward walked in solitude for two hours. It was then that he heard the sounds of rapid hoofbeats on the road behind him. His first instinct was to pull off the road immediately. "But then," he thought despairingly, "perhaps I would be better to stay here...to end it all by being dashed to pieces under a horse's hooves, rather than continue in this futile, painful, degrading existence." The mental image, however, of actually being dashed to pieces under a horse's hooves quickly decided him, and he hurried off the path to wait for the rider to pass.  
As the hooves neared, he divined that there were two horses at least. "Too much noise for one," he thought.

Sure enough, in a few moments, two horses appeared over the hilltop. Edward started. There were two horses, but only one rider -- and that rider was his valet!

The other man reined his horse to a halt near Edward. "Sir!" he exclaimed, dismounting. "I figured you had started on your way."

Edward felt elated that he was no longer alone, particularly when he saw that the other man had brought an extra horse. But his pride refused to acknowledge the sentiment, so, instead, he glared at the valet. "What are you doing here?"

"Following you, sir."

Edward's glare turned to a frown. He couldn't understand this...in all truth, he had been rude and discourteous -- and, to top it off, remiss in actually paying the man's wages. Why, in the name of heaven, would he follow him here? "Why?" he asked at last.

"Well, it's my job sir!" the valet answered, in a tone that seemed to indicate that the answer was self-evident.

Edward's frown deepened. "Well, how did you get another horse?" he asked and last. "And what for?"

"For you, of course, sir," the valet replied. "And I bought it."

Edward stared at the other man, attempting to ascertain if he was sincere. Seeing that he was, he then wondered if his servant was mad. Not only did he put up with his master's temperamental, even -- though he was loath to admit it -- absurd, antics, and all without pay, but now he was spending his own money to buy a horse for said annoying master?

"Well, come on, sir," the valet said. "Aren't you going to mount? It's much faster riding to Cheydinal than walking."

Edward shook his head, not quite sure of what to say, but took the reins from his valet's outstretched hand. The man _was _mad, he concluded, but at least he was loyal. Plus, though he hated to admit it, he seemed to be a pretty good thief, which just might come in handy some day.


	32. Chapter 32

An ounce of prevention is worth a pound of cure. Unless you're talking the emperor's death, in which case no prevention is worth a nice shiny amulet...

-- Musings of Edward

Chapter Thirty-Two

After his misadventure upon discovering the hideout, Edward was able to navigate his way from memory, without mishap. Even the door didn't give him a problem, as he remembered the password.

Remembering that Antionetta Marie might be around, he drew himself up tall, puffed out his chest, and sauntered coolly inside, as nonchalant as can be. Nonchalant, that is, with the exception of his eyes, which roamed quickly around the room, back and forth, attempting to locate the girl. Exhaling, and slipping into his comfortable if not impressive stance, he sighed. Not only was Antionetta not around, no one was around!

Then, all at once, a side door grated open. Edward spun around, and, seeing Vicente and Antionetta emerge, planned to return to his previous stance. But he abandoned this idea as their eyes had already located him. Instead, he smiled as coolly as possible, which was not very coolly. Somehow, he wasn't sure how, this girl always managed to surprise him, and leave him feeling goofy and awkward rather than charming and impressive.

"Edmund!" Vicente greeted.

"Edward," Edward corrected.

"Right," Vicente agreed. "But you're back!"

"Ummm, yeah," Edward agreed weakly. He wanted to say something funny, something witty to impress Antionetta, who was approaching with Vicente, but couldn't think of anything.

"And no cobwebs this time!" Antionetta observed.

Edward flushed.

"So," Vicente declared, ignoring his companion's remark, "I heard about your venture." He frowned. "Was it really necessary to burn him to death?"

Edward blinked. "What?" Then he remembered the ship going up in flames, no doubt from the candle that he had knocked over during his hasty retreat. "Oh, no, he was already dead," he hastened to explain.

"Really?" Vicente asked, clearly relieved. "You killed him before setting the ship alight?"

This was a puzzler, because, though the man was in truth dead before the fire, it wasn't at Edward's hand. But he decided to reply in the affirmative, as the pirate had died laughing at him, so he had in some way contributed to his death. "Yes, quite," he answered.

"Oh, good," Vicente said. "You understand, despite the fact that the people we deal with are often cruel and terrible killers, we are not in the business of cruelty; we're in the business of justice and retribution."

Edward shifted. He always felt thoroughly nervous and ill at ease when people started talking about justice. "Yes, quite," he repeated.

"I, umm, just thought that that would, umm, add a deeper, err, psychological impact on his fellow pirates by, uhh, burning the ship down after killing him."

"Interesting theory," Vicente smiled. "But, I guess you're ready for your reward."

Now Edward smiled too, as the other man handed him a bag of gold. Something like a hiss of disgust passed from Antionetta's lips. He glanced up at her, but her expression was unchanged.

"And, what's more," Vicente said, passing him a ring, "as a reward for such a good job, you might find this useful. It's an enchanted ring that provides armor and security enhancements, and resistance to magic."

Edward smiled broadly, putting the ring on.

"So, are you ready for a new assignment?" Vicente asked.

"Of course!"

"Good. Our next one's a tricky one. We're going to 'arrange an accident' for an old man who previously 'arranged an accident' for his brother, thereby leaving the dispossessed son of the murdered brother to come into his rightful inheritance."

Edward frowned. "You mean...somebody killed his brother to rob him, and now we're going to kill the murderous brother so that the son of the murdered brother can inherit what the murdering brother stole from the murdered brother?"

Vicente blinked, as if absorbing the convoluted statement, and then nodded.

"Oh...well, it's simple when you put it my way."

"Anyway," Vicente continued, "the target is a wood elf named Baenlin. Now -- and this is very important -- he has an innocent manservant working for him, a man called Gromm. Gromm is absolutely devoted to his employer, so he will kill you if he sees you trying to harm him; he is innocent, though, and has no idea of Baelin's true nature. So be very careful that no harm comes to him."

Edward sighed. "Very well." These rules really were crazy, he thought, but as long as he got paid...

"Now, Baelin lives in Bruma," Vicente continued.

"Ugh!" Edward exclaimed. "Bruma?"

Vicente blinked in the face of his outrage. "Yes, Bruma."

"You mean...I have to sully my hands killing someone in that fortress of barbarity, that realm of savages?" Edward asked, recoiling in disgust.


	33. Chapter 33

Cold as the frozen tundra  
Treacherous and icy indeed  
Beware he who'd make a false step  
Of this vengeful heart of mine.  
-- Praise of Edward, written by Edward

Chapter Thirty-Three

A very huffy Edward had made the arduous journey, accompanied by his faithful retainer, to Bruma. While Edward was positively disgusted that he had to venture to a city of primitives, as he thought of Bruma, his valet was exuberant. Apparently, he had had some very good fortune thieving while Edward was meeting up with fellow assassins; so good, in fact, that the Cheydinhal castle was under redoubled security from that day forward.

Though he had mostly gotten over the stark difference between his valet's success and his failure as a thief, the other man's eagerness, and the clear reason for it, still served to aggravate him.

Furthermore, being a midlander, Edward was unaccustomed to the frigid temperatures of the Jerall mountains; and, being a snob, he had never ventured to the "barbarous northern regions", so was completely unprepared for the frigidity that awaited him. His valet, thankfully, had prepared ahead, and brought several cloaks and blankets, all of which he surrendered to Edward. Regardless, Edward's teeth still chattered nonstop throughout the journey, and he shook at times so hard that he almost fell off his horse. Finally, when the gates of Bruma came into sight, he was so relieved at the prospect of a warm bed and a lit fireplace that he almost forgot his revulsion at the thought of sojourning amongst such barbarians.

Surrendering their horses outside the gates of the city, Edward and his valet headed inside. Edward was nearly frozen stiff by time they reached the Jerall View Inn. "This is a very nice place, sir," his valet told him. "It's a little bit more expensive than Olav's Tap and Tack, but the beds are much nicer and it's much warmer."

Edward nodded his head, which just caused his teeth to chatter more. He stood aside as his valet took care of the business -- in actuality, he abandoned the other man and ran as fast as his shaking legs would take him to the lit fireplace -- and then, very reluctantly, headed toward his room as the valet returned. "Well sir," the valet said, "the good news is that we've got a very nice room with a beautiful fire."

Edward nodded, barely aware of the man's words as he was led to the room.

The valet opened the door, stood aside to let Edward in, and then followed. "The bad news," he continued, "is that there were no other rooms available in the inn."

Edward managed to rouse himself from his stupor of cold, and glance up at his servant. "So?" he asked, teeth chattering. "You said there was another inn in town. You can go there."

"Well sir," the valet said, "actually, there are no rooms available at Olav's Tap and Tack, either."

Edward frowned at him. "How do you know?"

"Because, sir...the guy in front of me was grumbling about paying more for his room here, and saying that there were no rooms available anywhere because of the mage's conference here in town. And then the proprietor said that this was his last room, too."

Edward's frown deepened. "Well, surely..." he protested, looking about. Even if he would endure the indignity of sharing a room with his servant, he certainly would not endure the humiliation of sharing the same bed -- even if it was a large double bed, like this one. "I suppose you could always sleep outside somewhere..." he mused aloud. "There's got to be some shelter somewhere, where it's mostly out of the wind or something...I mean, I suppose they have homeless people and beggars here, and that must be what they do..."

His valet cleared his throat significantly. "Well, sir, not to put too fine a point on it, _but..._the room is rented in my name, and I paid for it myself."

Edward stared at him blankly, still shivering as he stood by the fireplace. "Yes?" he asked.

"Well, sir, I think I will be sleeping inside tonight. I would be glad to share my room with you, if you like -- after all, I would hate to see you out there looking for shelter, particularly when it doesn't sound like there's any to be had in Bruma this evening."

Edward stared at him with a mixture of exhaustion-induced apathy and pride-induced anger. "Of all the insolence!" he managed to say at length.

The valet nodded. "Thank you, sir."


	34. Chapter 34

Fire at the Harbor!

In yet another astonishing revelation, coming close on the heels of so many other shocking occurrences in our city, we report a disastrous night for the Marie Elena, the frequent visitor of our illustrious harbor. As our reader may recall, the Marie Elena was long purported – but never proved -- to be a pirate vessel. In yet unexplained circumstances, the ship spontaneously erupted into flame and burnt into wreckage that promptly sank to the bottom of the bay. The cause of this incident is as yet unknown, although some witnesses did report seeing a darkly clad figure skulk away from the wreckage. The veracity of these stories, however, is called into question by the inebriation of the tellers. As a result, the conflagration and ensuing disaster is officially listed as "Fire and sinking, under suspicious circumstances." A reward is being offered for any further information relating to this incident.

--Black Horse Courier, Special news Bulletin

Chapter Thirty-Four

Edward tossed again. He was wrapped in about ten blankets, which he'd had a very difficult time securing from the none-too-accommodating proprietor, and he still felt thoroughly chilled. Furthermore, he couldn't get over his aggravation at having to sleep beside a servant -- much less a servant who had no difficulty getting to sleep wrapped in a single blanket, while he struggled to sleep even under a mountain of them. And, to make it even worse, every once in a while his valet would snore.

Now, his occasional snore was not terribly offensive or terribly loud; it wasn't that that annoyed Edward. No, it was the mere fact that he, Edward, should have to sleep beside a snoring servant that boiled his blood. "_Disgusting_," he thought again and again, poking his valet hard with every soft snore while declaring loudly, "Stop snoring! You're keeping me awake!"

After the third time, the valet muttered something inaudible, gathered his pillow and blanket, and lay down to sleep on the bench at the far end of the room. Edward congratulated himself heartily at this, thinking that, finally, his efforts had paid off -- though he was still sharing a room with his servant, at least he didn't have to suffer the humiliation of sharing a bed with his hired help.

Then he started shivering, and was all at once cursing his wayward servant anew. Instead of generating heat at his side, when the other man had gone, he'd left Edward exposed to the cold night air -- as exposed as one can be fully dressed in heavy clothes and under ten blankets, at least.

His teeth began chattering again, and he hunkered down under his coverings, certain that he would freeze to death before morning. "_Then, at least, this will all be over_," he consoled himself. "_Damn this barbarian outpost and its frigid nights and full inns and stupid mages' conferences and insolent servants and..._"

Lulling himself to sleep with a barrage of people and things that he'd like to damn, Edward dozed at last. He slept relatively peacefully, having only the occasional dream of dying a slow death on a frozen tundra with a barbarian outpost just ahead, just beyond where the last reaches of his strength could push him. He woke the next morning feeling quite stiff, as though he had, in fact, partially frozen, and quite cold, as if evidence of the first supposition. His first instinct was to berate his servant, though for what he wasn't quite sure.

"_Hogging the bed?_" he wondered. No, that was a dangerous one to bring up, particularly in light of the fact that Edward had pushed him practically off the edge of the bed, and then had later forced him out by hitting or poking him whenever he snored. "_Ahh_!" he thought, "_that's it! The snoring_!" Yes, that would be perfect. Already imagining the tale of lost sleep and discomfort with which he'd assault his valet, he stopped short as he glanced at the bench on the opposite side of the room. There was the man's pillow, and a blanket folded up very neatly, but where was he?

Edward frowned deeply. His servant's blanket had been an extremely thin one, and it aggravated him intensely that the other man was able to survive the cold with so little protection while it bothered him so substantially. "_Bastard_," he thought. "_And where in Oblivion is he_?" Edward was feeling very peevish that morning, and it annoyed him more than he could coherently express that his paid subordinate...alright, his pay-deferred subordinate would just up and leave without asking permission. Not that, of course, Edward would have wanted to be woken to be asked something like that; but he conveniently ignored such facts when it suited him to do so, and it suited him now. "_Well_," he thought, "_I've half a mind to fire that man! Just who does he think he is?_"

At that moment, the door opened, and the valet and one of the inn's servants entered, carrying breakfast food. "I'm not sure if he's awake yet," the valet was saying, "so bring in some strong coffee please. He's got a long day ahead of him."

"Yes sir," the third man agreed.

Edward frowned as a host of delicious aromas assailed his nostrils. Somebody, at least, in this town of savages could cook.

"Ahh!" the valet greeted. "You're awake, sir!"

Edward nodded warily. He was suspicious of his valet's motives in acting as though nothing was amiss when he felt a nagging sense (was it the pangs of conscience?) that things were not well.

The valet, however, deftly set down his tray on the stand near Edward's bed, and then directed that the other tray be set on his bench. He watched as the third man left the room and shut the door, and then turned to Edward.

"I'm glad you were awake, sir," he said, "because I came across some intelligence that might prove very helpful to you on your mission."


	35. Chapter 35

He bemoans the ignorance and stupidity of his courier

Yet t'was he who chose the fool, was it not?

We cannot say whether it's the messenger or the worrier

Who is the greater of fools, for we know not.

-- The Eight Divines, speaking of the Ninth

Chapter Thirty-Five

Edward sat down, munching on a piece of toast as the inn's servant poured two cups of coffee. After he was gone, Edward took one, and offered the other to his valet. A little bit of civility, he thought, wouldn't hurt, particularly when his valet apparently had information that might make his job easier. "_The easier the job, the sooner I'll be able to leave; and the sooner I leave, the sooner I'll be home, in a civilized climate amongst civilized people_," he thought.

"Well, sir," the valet said, pausing to sip his coffee, "I was paying an early morning visit to my fence, and I happened to run into Gromm -- you know, the fellow who works for Baenlin."

Edward nodded, munching loudly on his toast.

"Well, he was out early too, and he was also visiting my fence."

Edward blinked. "He'sh a thief?" he asked, his mouth full of food.

"No," the valet returned. "Not a thief...it's just that my fence conducts business at all hours, unlike most shopkeepers."

Edward frowned. "Well, what short of bushinesh did he have to do?" He still wasn't convinced that Gromm wasn't a thief, as the business of a fence was dealing with thieves and buying and selling stolen goods.

"Well sir, he was looking for a new length of sturdy rope."

Edward's frown intensified, and he was sure now that Gromm was some sort of criminal. "Rope? What for?"

"Well," the valet answered, "this is where things get really interesting...you see, he was saying that his master has a giant trophy head over his chair, and that he -- Gromm -- had recently noticed that the rope fastening it to the wall had started to fray. His master hadn't been terribly concerned, but it bothered Gromm so much that he decided to go get some rope before Baenlin got up, and his daily duties began."

"Yesh?" Edward asked as he took another bite, having abandoned both his idea that Gromm was a criminal ("_just a sap,_" he thought), as well as his interest in pursuing the matter any further.

"My fence didn't have any rope!" the valet answered excitedly.

This didn't interest him at all, as he could see no point to his servant's eagerness, so Edward sighed wearily. Unfortunately, with a mouth full of toast, his sigh turned into a coughing and wheezing fit as the rush of exhaled air pushed toast crumbs up into and out of his nostrils.

After several minutes of coughing and his eyes tearing up while his concerned valet did everything he could to assist -- which, admittedly, wasn't much, once he ascertained what the difficulty was -- Edward regained himself. "Well," he snapped, his eyes still glistening with tears, "what in Oblivion does any of this have to do with me?!"

"Don't you see, sir?" the valet asked. "Since none of the other shops were open, and he had to get back before his master woke, the problem hasn't been fixed!"

Edward closed his eyes, his nasal passages still flaming, and his temper not far behind. "Yes, I'm not stupid, I get that!" he exclaimed, his efforts at a calm response failing miserably. "But so what? How does that help me?!"

The valet blinked, as if the answer seemed crystal clear, but then, in a very civil tone, explained, "Well sir, your job is to arrange an accident, correct? What more perfect than this? Gromm has already identified the problem, his master has dismissed it, and he hasn't had time to address it. If you were to manage to drop the head on Baenlin while he was sitting underneath, I'm sure you'd kill him -- as Gromm fears. Then, it would indeed look like an accident!"

Edward's impatience waned only slightly. "I still don't see how that's of much use to me," he complained. "I mean, how am I supposed to drop the head on him without Gromm seeing me?"

The valet blinked. "Well, sir, I have no idea...but, seeing as how this is your province, I figured you'd be able to figure something out."

Edward blinked at him in return, somewhat rebuffed by the statement. He wanted to snap back a smart comment, but held his peace; his valet had a point, didn't he? He was supposed to be the expert at this sort of thing, after all. "But," he said slowly, not quite sure what else to say, "that's not really my style, you see?"

"Oh," the valet returned, clearly disappointed.

"But," Edward ventured, "I'll be sure to keep it in my mind while I, umm, draw up my strategy."


	36. Chapter 36

The rivers turn to ice,  
And the mountains shiver and frown  
But the people are nice,  
In this faraway and foreign little town.  
-- Ode to Bruma

Chapter Thirty-Six

As stupid as his valet's suggestion had seemed to him at first, the more Edward thought about it, the more it sounded like the only logical way to go about the matter. After all, Vicente had practically forbade him to kill Gromm; and, by all accounts, Gromm was hardly someone Edward would want to -- indeed, could -- fight. Furthermore, Baenlin was a murderer, and a cruel and callous one at that. He had killed his own brother, hadn't he, to steal his property -- and rob his own nephew in the process? He might be old, but that didn't necessarily mean he couldn't fight. "_After all_," Edward thought, "_this is a land of barbarians...these primitives are killing each other before they crawl...they probably don't age like normal, civilized people, either...they probably don't grow into nice, mildly annoying, partially deaf people who cut in front of you in line after you've been waiting for forty-five minutes just to buy a stupid, stinking roll, then take the last roll in the whole damn bakery, and then can't even hear you when you cuss them out!_" Edward broke off from that train of thoughts, realizing that his teeth were clenched and his hands were instinctively clutching out and throttling the thin air in front of him. He blinked, straightened his ruffled outfit -- his clothes had been mussed in his murder of the phantom elderly man he'd imagined -- and resumed his original line of thought. "_Anyway, in this primitive place, the old men are probably a bunch of hardened warriors who would as soon slice you in two as look at you._" He sighed. "_The only possible thing for me to do is kill 'im without him suspecting...and that minotaur head sounds as good as anything else._" He frowned. "_But how oh how am I going to loose it without him knowing??_"

Edward's frown intensified. "_Well_," he mused, "_I suppose I should do a little reconnaissance. If I could just get into the house under some innocent pretext..._"

Then Edward's face lit up as an idea struck him. He would go to Baenlin's house, pretend to be a repairman, gain access to the trophy, and drop it then. Smiling at his own brilliance, Edward donned his coat and headed out of the inn. No sooner had he done this than he regretted the action; a cold, wintery blast of air greeted him in the traditional Bruma way. "_What kind of savages could live here?_" he wondered, shaking immediately. "_And what is it with naming inns for things that they're not near and can't be seen from? Jerral View Inn my foot! You can't see the mountains from here!_" Shaking his head in distaste at the stupidity of these foreign primitives, he set out for Baenlin's house.

"_If I built an inn,_" he thought as he trudged along, "_I would call it something interesting, something important...like the Prince Edward Inn...or the Royal Family Suites...something that makes sense, not something like 'Jerral View Inn' when you can't see the darned mountains from the stupid inn!_"

He had trudged about for several minutes, shivering all the while, when he stopped, realizing that he had no idea where he was going. "_Where is this Baenlin, anyway?_" he wondered, frowning. There were houses all around him, and nothing to denote who lived where.

He reached a shaking hand into his pocket to retrieve a map, which he unrolled. He had marked the spot of Baenlin's house with an x, but it didn't help him much as he didn't know where he was in relation to anything else on the map.

"Excuse me sir," a voice interrupted his thoughts. Edward started, glancing up at the passing guard who was addressing him. "But can I help you?"

"Well, umm, yes, actually," Edward said, swallowing his fear of discovery. "You see, I was hired by, umm..." He froze, his mind blanking for an instant. "Gromm! Yes, Gromm -- you know, Master Baenlin's hired man -- to repair something ..."

"Oh!" the guard exclaimed. "You must be talking about the minotaur head trophy!"

Edward blinked. "Yes, that's right."

"Yes," the guard nodded. "Old Gromm's been quite upset about it...so he finally got someone to take a look at the thing, eh?"

Edward nodded weakly. If this was such a well known problem that a random guard knew about it, maybe dropping the head on Baenlin wasn't the wisest choice.

"Good, good," the guard continued, even as Edward continued to shiver violently. "He was telling old Ognar about it this morning, and Ognar happened to run into Arnora, and she happened to run into my missus, and, well..." Here he paused to laugh. "The rest is history."

"Yes, well, erm, that's very interesting," Edward managed.

"But, seeing as how you're looking at that map, you must be trying to find Baenlin's place?"

Edward nodded meekly. He had been hoping to find an excuse to slip away quietly, but that was impossible now.

The guard laughed uproariously at this. "You must be a foreigner, right?" He looked Edward up and down, "Yup, 'course you are...you've got that sissy fine skin, unused to the rigorous mountain winds and cold."

Edward only chattered his teeth in response.

"Well, anyhow, you're standing in front of old Baenlin's place."


	37. Chapter 37

Wicked deceiver, constant liar,  
Of your silly tricks you never tire  
Little do you in your foolishness know  
You tread the path the gods have you go.  
-- Unattributed Song to Edward

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Luckily for Edward, the guard had introduced him to Gromm only as someone who had "come to take care of your minotaur problem." Edward had then been able, once the guard had left, to say that his valet had mentioned the issue to him, and that he had come to see if there was anything that he could do.

"Oh...well, that's very nice of you," Gromm answered. "But...are you qualified?"

Edward frowned at him. "My dear man," he said, "I'll have you know you are talking to the -- the! -- official decorator of the Imperial palace!"

"Oh!" Gromm declared, clearly impressed. "Well, what are you doing in Bruma?"

"I, umm, wanted a little vacation," Edward lied. "After the Emperor's tragic death and all that."

"Oh, I see," Gromm replied, adding a bit disbelievingly, "So you came to Bruma? For vacation?"

Too late, Edward realized the absurdity of his claim; but, now that it was made, he had to do the best he could. "Well, yes," he said, "you see, it was so depressing being in the warm, comfortable, flowery, beautiful midlands..."

Gromm stared at him quizzically. "Why?"

"Well," Edward hesitated, "because...well, because the Emperor died!"

Gromm's face softened. "Oh, I understand!" he said. "You were his servant!"

"Yes," Edward agreed. He wasn't quite sure where Gromm was going with this, but it had clearly and favorably altered the man's disposition, so he was willing to run with it.

"I quite understand," Gromm said, nodding his head solemnly. "A servant's job is a sacred one...and, when he loses his master, it's as if he loses his calling in life, his very reason for living!"

Edward nodded hastily, wondering at the same time what the man had been drinking. "_Hell_," he thought, "_I'd probably be laughing that the fat bastard met his maker before I did, even after all his years of living in ease and comfort while I slaved away to make him easy and comfortable!_"

"Well then," Gromm declared, "I appreciate your kindly assistance. And you know where I'm coming from!"

"Oh, yes," Edward felt it necessary to say. "Indeed!"

"You see that head?" Gromm asked, pointing up at a giant minotaur head mounted on the wall. "And you see the seat under it, near the fireplace?"

"Yes."

"Well, my master likes to sit there and drink his wine after supper. And I've noticed that the rope that holds the head up is fraying. I'm just afraid that..." He broke off, his face ashen, as if afraid to say the words.

"I quite understand," Edward said, thinking that this servant must be extraordinarily superstitious, or else just plain old mad. "Well, leave it to me. I'll survey the situation, and then...umm, decide what needs to be done."

"Excellent," Gromm declared. "Although..." Here he hesitated. Lowering his voice confidentially, he whispered, "Please take care not to alert my master...you see, although he doesn't speak much of it to me, I gather that there are some evil men who would like to do him harm, and he is very suspicious as a result...he wouldn't be happy with me if he knew that I let someone in to work on that."

Edward nodded knowingly. "I understand completely...you can never be too careful!"

"Yes," Gromm nodded. "And, of course, I'd forgotten that you'd know exactly what I mean, what with working for the Emperor and all."

"Exactly so," Edward smiled. "Just leave it to me."


	38. Chapter 38

The empire lays on the brink of chaos,  
Mehrunes Dagon goes about his merry way  
Meanwhile is the amulet bearer at a loss  
To understand what he risks with such delay?

-- Musings of Friar Jauffre

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Edward sighed. He was crouched in a stuffy crawlspace, staring at old, fraying rope. What, exactly, he wondered, did that idiot Gromm expect him to do? This would be a two or three man job at least, to lower this head to the ground, replace the rope, and rehang it.

"Oh well," he thought, "it should be easy enough to drop it, at least...it looks like the darn thing might fall at any moment." With this, an idea came to him. "_Hmm...suppose I just toy with the ropes a little bit, so that, by this evening -- when Baenlin sits down to drink his wine -- this'll all come crashing down._" He smiled devilishly. "_And I can just tell that pathetic, groveling servant of his that I'm going to get some fresh rope, and I'll be back later in the evening, once Baenlin is gone to bed._" His smile widened, and he moved closer to the ropes.

"_Hmm_," he mused, seizing it and wiggling it back and forth -- at least, attempting to wiggle it, but not being able to budge the taut rope. At the same time, he heard a suspicious creaking sound, and felt the floor beneath him shift in a decidedly unpleasant fashion. Edward's eyes bulged. "Great gods!" he exclaimed. "Forget the rope...this crawlspace is about to collapse!"

Pulling backwards in order to expeditiously exit the wobbly structure, Edward gasped. His fingers were stuck in the rope. "_No!_" he thought, pulling violently to be free. The rope would not budge, but the wall to which it was attached shivered. Edward, feeling panic rising in him, began to flail and struggle like a wild animal in a trap. He was kicking and pulling and screaming to be free when, all at once, a tremendous groan issued from the wall; the next thing Edward knew, he was being hauled forward and downward, dragged by his fingers, which were caught in the rope that was attached to the wall which was pulled downward by the minotaur head.

Certain beyond any hope that he was a dead man, Edward just closed his eyes, and waited for the worst. The worst did not come, however; instead, Edward landed with a crash on top of the wall remnants, which splintered fully on the minotaur head. Aside from decidedly unlucky contact between his head and a board, he was unscathed. That said, it was half an hour before Edward regained consciousness.

When he woke, he found himself in a cold stone cell, with a rough sleeping roll underneath him; he was only vaguely aware of these things as he groaned in agony and attempted to roll onto his side.

"Well," a voice greeted his agonized groaning, "you really did yourself in for some trouble."

Edward attempted a question, just as he attempted to look at the speaker, but he was in too much pain to do either.

"You needn't bother with the sympathy routine," the other speaker informed him matter-of-factly. "Trust me, I've tried it...they don't care here. We're the prisoners -- as far as they're concerned, if we're not suffering, they're not doing their job."

Edward tried to ask, "Whose 'they'?" Instead, he managed to gurgle something that sounded like a cat throwing up.

"'They'," the voice answered, "are the guards. And 'we' are the prisoners."

Edward's contorted face contorted further. Somehow, he knew he would end up in prison, even though he didn't know how or why. It was his luck, or lack thereof.

"I'm in here for theft...but you..." The other prisoner clucked his tongue. "Impersonating the royal decorator? Pulling down half of old Baenlin's house?" He clucked again.

"He's not dead then?" Edward managed to gasp.

"Dead? Well, what else, when a foot longer splinter pierces your head? A piece of your debris went flying into the poor man, and killed him instantly. Gromm would have killed you on the spot, if the guards hadn't heard the noise and come running." The other prisoner laughed. "To think, you're actually safer in here than you would be free." He laughed again.

Edward frowned, but did not dare to move enough to look at the other man; his pain was at a manageable level now, and he did not want to risk exacerbating his problems. "I don't understand; I was only trying to help."

This declaration was met with laughter. "Bah! You were up to thieving!"

Edward groaned again, not from pain this time, but at the realization that he'd missed a golden opportunity to loot Baenlin's home.

"And, sadly for you -- and old Baenlin," the prisoner continued, laughing at his own wit, "you accidentally knocked the old attic down." He repeated his mocking clucking. "Old Baenlin should have taken better care of that place, than to let it rot like that. And you should have been smarter than to try such a lame scheme to infiltrate the house."

At that moment, the outer door to the dungeon scraped open, and light flooded the dark cells and hallway. A gruff voice called out, "Alright, get up...you're free to go."

"Me?!" the excited voice of Edward's cellmate asked.

"No, not you!" came the response. "You've still got six months to go!"

"But...but...this man is in here for murder!" the other prisoner gasped. "How come he goes free, and I stay here?"

"None of your nevermind, that's why!" the guard answered. "And you!" -- this to an unknown newcomer, standing silhouetted in the doorway -- "You collect this lunatic, and get him out of Bruma! Gromm's been pretty forgiving, but you never know, especially if he starts drinking...better to keep the loon out of here for a few months, until things cool down."

"Cool down?" Edward wondered aloud. He had been following the conversation as well as he was able, but the sudden flood of light had sent his senses swimming, and he hadn't been able to make much of anything that had been said since. "You mean, it actually gets colder here than it already is?"

The guard cleared his throat, shook his head, and unlocked Edward's cell. The other, unidentified man, came in, knelt beside Edward, and said in a very low tone, "Come with me, sir -- and please, don't say anything! I got them to let you out, but I had to give a cover story. Don't speak, please!"

Edward blinked in surprise. It was his valet, although, at least to his eyes, the man seemed surrounded by swirls of color...no, that was the entire room. "It's you!" he said. "You should have seen me! I was flying on a giant moose!" He blinked again. Everything was moving so oddly, like when you just wake up in the morning and open your eyes. He smiled. "No, this is a dream, isn't it? I'm not really in prison?"

"Come with me, sir," his valet said, lifting him to his feet. This last bit of movement sent a shockwave of pain through Edward's head, and he lost consciousness.


	39. Chapter 39

Our latest news bulletin comes all the way from Bruma, that remote and exotic Nordish town. Word came to us only today that a maniac, posing as the Royal Decorator, infiltrated a resident of the town, one Baelin's, home and, in a wildly improbable -- yet independently verified -- series of deceptions and bunglings, unwittingly managed to knock half of the poor man's home down. Unfortunately, Baenlin was killed in the accident. His killer survived and was taken to jail, but subsequently released -- before his name could be ascertained by our correspondent -- due to his madness. The infiltration, it would seem, was but a bout of insanity with which the poor lunatic has been plagued his entire life. He was released into the custody of his trusty manservant, and the pair shortly thereafter vacated their room at the Jerral View Inn. No more is known of the lunatic, but our sympathies in this tragedy go out to both he and Master Baenlin.

-- Black Horse Courier, Special News Bulletin

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Edward had not been dreaming; he had, in fact, been sent to prison for attempted theft resulting in accidental murder -- an oxymoronic term that Edward was able to make neither heads nor tails of. It was only when his valet had approached the guards, and told a peculiar, but, after Edward's antics, plausible, cover story that he had been released.

It had taken Edward several days to rest up to the point where he was well enough to consider embarking on their trip home, and he had not learnt the details of his surprising rescue until then. His valet, it turned out, had spun the none-too-flattering tale that he, Edward, was a mad nobleman, in the charge of his trusty caretaker. Edward, the valet had said, would imagine himself as all sorts of things. When the guards had been suspicious, and recounted Edward's story to Gromm, the valet had just shook his head. "Dear me," he'd said, "so now it's the royal decorator, is it?" He'd sighed, and added, "Before we came up here, he was the high priest of the temple of Julianos." He'd shaken his head when he said this. "And before that, he was the ghost of the recently deceased arch mage...you've no idea what a job it is to convince an old lady that the madman running around in the cemetery, carrying the hearts of dead animals for his 'spells', and dressed in a long white gown declaring that he'll get revenge isn't actually a threat." One more sigh, and the valet had sealed the deal, even with Gromm, who was able to forgive a madman what he would not forgive a sane man. The guards were sympathetic, but happy to have the lunatic out of their prison. Edward, as a result of his injuries, was not in his right senses for a while, and so fit their idea of a madman perfectly. So it was that Edward and his valet were able to make an escape from Bruma.

Despite the fact that his life had been saved, Edward was not entirely pleased with his valet's explanation; but he decided it was best not to quarrel with the man who had rescued him in his hour of dire need. So, they made their way back to the midlands, and back to Cheydinhal.

There was little conversation as they traveled, as both men were lost in thought. Edward's mind had returned to the almost forgotten amulet that hung about his neck. "_I've made_ _a little bit hunting killers and causing accidents,_" he thought, "_but I've also got the ever-loving-poo kicked out of myself in the process. Maybe I should just throw in the towel, pawn that sucker off, and live in comfort for the rest of my life._" The idea appealed to him, and yet something made him hesitate. Through all his adventures and misadventures, it had always comforted him to know that he had something to fall back on, even if he met with failure in his other ventures. Was he ready to dispose of that security?

At that moment, his valet spoke. "Sir?" he said.

"Yes?" Edward asked.

"Sir, I've been thinking..." Here he trailed off, his brow furrowing in thought.

"Well, umm, good for you," Edward ventured sarcastically after a moment.

This comment drew the other man's attention, and he frowned at Edward. "What I mean, sir," he said, "is that I've been thinking about the Emperor's death."

It was Edward's turn to frown now. "Well, umm, what about it?" he asked, feigning nonchalance.

"Well, I've heard rumors, sir...rumors that the Amulet of Kings has disappeared."

"The what?" Edward asked, frowning.

"The Amulet of Kings," his valet answered. "It's rumored to be a powerful magical item, that every emperor has to wear, or else the empire will plunge into darkness and despair! The emperor must have been wearing it when he died -- no emperor goes anywhere without it!"

Edward's frown intensified. "_Damn it!_" he thought. "_No wonder that swine emperor was wearing the amulet I found out in the open like that...to conceal the Amulet of Kings! Oh, if only I had found that one...forget puny gold and rubies; I'd take an Amulet of Kings any day -- that even **sounds **cool! And I'll bet I could sell that baby for a fortune...heck, I could start bidding wars over it, between all the rich people who wanted_ _to be king...they'd have no choice: pay what I asked, or lose the empire and watch it plunge into ruin and despair..." _He paused from his reverie, a better idea coming to him. "_Or_," he thought excitedly_, "I could keep it myself, and I could become emperor! I could rule the empire! And it's only a short step from ruling an empire to the world! I, Edward, could rule the world!!"_

"Sir?!" a very astonished and concerned voice interrupted his thoughts.

Edward started, turned to his horrified valet, and then realized that he was instinctively, greedily licking his lips. He cleared his throat. "Oh, umm, my lips are, umm, chapped...you know, what with the bright sunlight and all that."

His valet nodded, but a hint of suspicion still lingered in his eye.


	40. Chapter 40

Bring me fortune, bring me fame,  
Ye gods above hear my pleas  
Bring me treasure, bring me gain  
Oh gods ignore not my entreaties!  
-- Edward's prayer as a child

Chapter Forty

Edward smiled coolly and swaggered into his Dark Brotherhood hideout. He was disappointed to see that, aside from M'raaj-Dar and the Dark Guardian, he was all alone; but he remembered what had happened last time he'd entered, so maintained his cool, easy attitude; at last, an attitude that he took to be cool and easy. "Yo, M'raaj-Dar my man, how's it hanging?" he asked.

The cat raised a furry eyebrow, responding only, "Funny that it would be you, talking about hanging...I think of the same thing, every time I hear you..."

Edward blinked, taken aback by this less than friendly response. "Come on, M'raaj-Dar, are you really saying that you hate me so much that you want to hang yourself every time you hear me?"

M'raaj-Dar's already raised eyebrow stood a good inch higher, and he commented dryly, "Myself? Guess again, brainy."

Edward gulped, and decided that he'd rather not carry on a conversation with the ornery Khajiit. Keeping his distance, he circled the cat to reach the Brotherhood quarters. Pushing against the doors with a grunt, he thought, "_Great divines, haven't these people ever heard of oiling the darned hinges?_!" They opened slowly, and only with much effort. Entering at last, and panting heavily as he did so, he shook himself to loosen his cramped muscles. He stepped inside, only to be greeted by several surprised stares, and a hiss of disgust from Antionetta.

"_Oblivion_!" he thought, attempting to resume the manner with which he'd entered the hideout. "_Of course she'd have to see that...I couldn't have problems with some other door...oh no...it would have to be here, and now._"

"Edgar!" Vicente greeted, rising from his seat across from Antionetta, where they both sat over a chessboard.

"Edward!" Edward corrected, frowning deeply. He didn't like this Breton; he didn't like the way he always got his name wrong; he didn't like the way he tended to dismiss him; and he certainly didn't like the way he was always hanging around Antionetta.

"Vicente, can't you wait to talk to him?" Antionetta asked, waving her hand in Edward's direction but not bothering to look at him. "We're almost finished with our game!"

Edward blinked, wondering how he should interpret her body language. _"Wow,_" he thought with a touch of joy. "_I didn't realize she had such a crush on me that she can't even look at me...I mean, I **suspected**, but..._" Aloud, however, he declared in his most obliging voice and with a broad smile, "Oh, of course -- it can wait!"

But Vicente smiled at Antionetta and declared, "Business before pleasure, my dear." With this, he took her hand, pressed it to his lips, and turned to Edward, who now stood agape. Antionetta, meanwhile, smiled warmly at Vicente, but cast a dark look Edward's way.

"Now," Vicente declared, his manner very businesslike, "what can I do for you?"

"Well, I, umm, came because I, uhh..." Edward started, stumbling over his words. His thoughts were in complete disarray, and he was having little success at reorganizing them. "_How dare that snotty little Breton touch her?_" he was wondering. "_And to kiss her! Him, of all people! I'm surprised she didn't slap him!_ _In fact, if he wasn't my boss, **I'd** slap him!_"

While his thoughts rambled on in this manner, Vicente spoke. "Yes, we heard about your mission. Interesting ruse, pretending to be a madman and all that, I must say -- and a bit risky at that." He shrugged. "But, it worked."

"Yes, it did," Edward said haughtily.

"Good thing you had someone to help you," Vicente offered.

"Save his butt, you mean," Antionetta put in curtly.

Edward blinked, surprised by her tone. "_But,_" he told himself, "_I can't blame her...of course she's short tempered, after being treated like that by that presuming, stuffed shirt Breton!_" He glared at Vicente.

Vicente seemed not to notice his expression. "Well, however that may be, you've earned your reward, and a promotion."

Edward blinked again, this time forgetting his abhorrence of Vicente. "A promotion?" he asked.

"That's right," the other man answered. "Congratulations! You're now a Slayer!"

Edward's blank expression turned into a radiant smile, and he started dancing and chanting, "Yes, yes, yes!" Then, seeing Antionetta's rather disgusted gaze resting on him, he hurried over to her table. "Did you hear? I got promoted!" he exclaimed, plunking into the seat opposite her and knocking the chessboard over with his knees as he did so.

"That's as good a way as any to go, I suppose," she said through clenched teeth as the chess pieces clattered on the floor.

"Huh?" Edward asked, abashed by his clumsiness, as he scrambled to pick up the pieces.

"What Antionetta means," Vicente intervened quickly, "is that that's a nice way to go on your next mission."

"Oh," Edward smiled up at her, "yes, isn't it?"


	41. Chapter 41

Can you feel the love in the air?  
There, the dreamer dreams up his starry paradise  
Do you wonder how the lover will fare?  
Alas, his poor heart must pay the fool's price.  
-- The Witless Swain, unattributed love poem rumored to have been inspired by a certain Imperial

Chapter Forty-One

"Well," Edward was telling his valet, "you know how I had been unjustly imprisoned by those nobleman who were aware of my ancestry?"

The other man grimaced almost imperceptibly, but said in a tone free of expression, "I recall you saying something to that effect, sir."

"Quite so," Edward nodded. "Well, they knew who I really was…that the Emperor was my father, and all of that…and they know that, with no heirs to the throne, it should, by rights, be mine – which is, of course, why I was thrown into prison."

"Indeed, sir," the valet declared, assuming that flat, disinterested tone he used when Edward was lying through his teeth.

"Well, anyway, do you remember the prisoner who was stationed across from me, Valen Dreth?"

"No sir."

"Well, he was a nasty thing…foul mouthed, cruel, mean…he taunted me the whole time I was in prison…"

"How terrible, sir."

"Yes, quite," Edward agreed. "But, it's payback time…Vicente wants me to kill him."

The valet's eyebrows rose. "For taunting you in prison, sir?"

"No, of course not!" Edward snapped. "Although I don't see why you'd say it with such disbelief…that would be reason enough to warrant the little turd's death, wouldn't it?"

The valet coughed discreetly, saying, "If you say so, sir, then I'm sure it is."

"You're darn right it is!"

"But what is his crime?" the valet persisted. "That is, his other one."

Somewhat, though not entirely, placated by this recognition of the wrong he'd been dealt, Edward answered, "Well, turns out the old goat is a murderer as well as a nasty, big mouthed bastard."

"But, isn't that why he's in prison, sir?"

"Yes," Edward answered. "But he's not going to be in prison for very long."

"Oh?"

"Yes…he's got friends, it seems, who are 'looking the other way' and releasing him next month…after only serving two months!"

The valet's eyebrows rose again. "I see!"

"Well," Edward smiled, "these good old boys are in for a surprise…Edward the Imperial doesn't stand by while friends pull strings for their friends, getting them out of prison, saving them from the gallows, freeing them after they've killed someone!" His valet shifted uncomfortably in his saddle, but Edward didn't notice. "No indeed! I'm going to be handing out some final justice."

"Indeed sir," came the valet's slightly ironic tone.

"Yup," Edward agreed, smiling broadly. "I say, this is a good day, you know that?"

"Is it, sir?"

"Yes indeed! Another mission, and…" Here Edward broke off, blushing a little. "Well, everything."

His valet frowned thoughtfully. "Everything, sir?"

"Yes, yes," Edward answered. "The birds are singing, the sun is shining, the flowers are blooming, the world is at peace all over!"

"I take it, then, sir, that you have a lady friend in the Brotherhood?"

Edward turned to the other man, and stared at him in astonishment, his mouth agape. "How on earth did you know?" he demanded.

The faintest hint of a smile appeared on the valet's lips, but he replied only, "Valet's intuition, sir."

"I say, that's very good!" Edward declared. "And, of course, you're right. There is a girl…Antionetta Marie…oh, you should see her…beautiful…blonde…absolutely, madly in love with me…"

His valet shot him a quick glance, as if hoping to discern whether or not he was lying. His expression only grew more puzzled, however, and he said, "Are you sure, sir?"

Edward stared at him, dumbfounded and not a little insulted by the question. "What do you mean, 'am I sure?' Of course I'm sure! Why, the poor girl is so in love with me that she can barely speak two words to me! She can't even look me in the eye! And that Vicente – the old pervert's got his eye on her, it's plain to see, but she wants nothing to do with him. You should've seen how upset she was when I came in while they were playing chess, and then he kissed her hand and left to talk to me; oh, she was furious! And humiliated – she couldn't even look me in the eye after that, she was so mortified." Edward sighed. "The poor lamb…if she only knew that I understood, that I saw through that red-eyed, pointy-toothed swine's schemes." Edward sighed again.

Meanwhile, his valet was staring at him, open-mouthed. At last, however, he cleared his throat. "Sir…do I understand you rightly when you say that you interrupted this girl – Antionetta – and Vicente from a game, and that Vicente kissed her hand, and after that – after you interrupted and Vicente left – Antionetta was furious, and wouldn't look at you or talk to you?"

"Yup," Edward nodded proudly. "I told you…plain as day, isn't it?"

His valet blinked at the statement, sat in amazed silence for a moment, and then ventured, "Well, sir, are you sure that you…well, that you're interpreting her reaction correctly?"

"Oh yes," Edward assured him, adding with a knowing smile, "But don't worry…I haven't done anything rash…I'm pretending I haven't noticed yet." The other man breathed a sigh of relief, but let Edward continue to prattle on. "The way I figure it, no sense rushing this thing…I'm young…I've still got to have fun before I think of settling for any one woman, even if she is wild for me…I've still got to reap my wild oats and all that!"

"Sow, sir," the valet corrected.

"Right," Edward agreed. "Whatever. But you get my drift. And, anyway, it's damned hard to have a relationship with someone when she's so carried away by her emotions that she can't talk to you or look at you, and avoids you whenever possible."

The other man cleared his voice. "Sir, don't you think…I mean, are you sure that her reaction earlier was embarrassment rather than, oh, I don't know…maybe being furious that you interrupted her game and took her away from the man she's really interested in?"

Edward did a double take, and in so doing nearly fell off of his horse. "Vicente?" he laughed. "Are you mad? That horrible, red-eyed thing, with his pointy teeth and stuffy accent? For heaven's sakes, man, he looks like a bloody vampire!"

"And are you sure that he's not?"

Edward stopped laughing and stared at him superciliously. "A vampire? Come now, don't be absurd! There's no such thing as vampires….that's all hogwash and superstition!"

"Oh yes," his valet agreed. "Vampires, werewolves, zombies, magicians…the whole lot."

"Not zombies and magicians," Edward corrected. "Those exist…I know, I've met some. The rest are though."

"Oh, I see…only the creatures that you've met exist, and the rest are myth?" the valet asked, a hint of irony in his tone.

"Exactly," Edward agreed earnestly. "And Vicente might be a nasty old coot, but a vampire he is not, even if he does look like one."

The valet shook his head, but did not argue the point. "Well, then, what's to say that she isn't in love with this fellow who looks like a vampire but isn't one?"

Edward laughed again. "Come on, who would fall for some weirdo with glowing eyes and pointy teeth?"

His valet sighed. "I have one word for you, sir: Twilight."


	42. Chapter 42

Of noble princes we sings,  
All those whose rule we fear  
Princes, Lords and Kings  
Hopes our praises they hear.  
-- Song of the Beggars and Serfs

Chapter Forty-Two

Edward had not spoken to his valet in hours. After the other man's impertinent, downright offensive, suggestion, he had had no desire to converse with him. Furthermore, despite his adamant denial of the idea, his valet's words had touched that shred of common sense that he'd always managed to cling onto, and made him ever so slightly uncomfortable, and ever so slightly depressed.

"You know, sir," his valet said at last, "I've been thinking...it might be a good idea to do something else for a while."

"What?" Edward asked.

"Well, you've got over a month to deal with the prisoner before he's released...and then, you could always get him after he's released too."

Edward frowned. "Why do you care when I do it, anyway?"

His valet shrugged, in an entirely unconvincing attempt at nonchalance. "Oh, I don't know...I just thought that maybe it might be a good idea to take a break from your Brotherhood quests."

"Why?" Edward asked, his frown deepening.

"Well, just so that you can...I don't know...broaden your horizons," the other man answered. "You know, see some other things, go other places."

"I don't think you understand," Edward snapped, "just how important my job is! If not for me, all sorts of nefarious characters would be getting away with all sorts of nefarious deeds! I don't have time to go sightseeing!" He paused. "Anyway, I don't really have enough money for a vacation."

His valet shook his head imperceptibly. No matter how much money Edward earned, he never seemed to be able to hang onto it for very long; between tipping pretty waitresses too much in vain attempts to impress them, to being a magnet for clothes with holes in their pockets, he always managed to wind up short on cash. "Well, sir, I know just the place where you might be able to earn yourself a little bit of money, take care of a few bad guys, and see some beautiful country, all at the same time."

Despite himself, Edward perked up. A vacation didn't sound terribly bad, and it might be nice to build his reputation outside of the Brotherhood. "Oh?" he said, attempting a disinterested air -- attempting, and failing miserably.

"Yes...a little town by the seaside, with lots of beautiful scenery and nice people, and just enough trouble to make it profitable for a noble-minded adventurer such as yourself to clean it up."

Edward smiled, almost forgetting his annoyance with his valet entirely. "_At least the man recognizes my inane abilities_," he thought. "_Or is that innate?_" He frowned in thought for several moments, but then dismissed the difficulty. He was too excited about a vacation to worry about stupid things like the proper use of language. "Well, what is this little town?"

"Anvil, sir."

Edward frowned again. "Anvil?"

"Have you been there, sir?"

"Well, no," Edward admitted. "But one doesn't have to go somewhere just to know that it's a backwards place. Take Bruma...I knew before I stepped foot in that frigid den of barbarians that it was an arctic hell. And, of course, I was right."

His valet cleared his throat tactfully. "Yes sir, however, Anvil is not a Bruma."

"Yes," Edward agreed, "it's warmer."

The other man sighed. "Sir, Anvil is a hub of culture!" Edward scoffed, but his valet continued anyway. "The sea port brings in people and goods from all lands!"

"Oh joy," Edward remarked. "A bunch of dirty, uncivilized seafarers bringing second class merchandise, probably stolen, in to drive the prices down for quality merchandise made by hard working Imperials!"

His valet's grimace deepened, but he did not directly confront his master's suppositions. Instead, he said, "Well, there are lots of Imperials in Anvil...and they sometimes have problems with some of the sailors and the dock hands...the whole town would be grateful, I'm sure, if a brave adventurer would come into town and clean things up." Seeing that Edward wasn't wholly convinced, he added, "And I'm sure they'd be willing to pay well...very well!"

Edward smiled at this. Yes, he could see himself filling the role his valet described, particularly the part about collecting a handsome reward. "Well," he said slowly. "I suppose I could make a short trip there...it's not like Valen's going anywhere for awhile." He laughed at his own joke, while his valet tried not to sigh audibly. "After all, these people really do need me...and, if I don't answer the call, they'll be left to face the barbarian hordes by themselves."

"Yes sir," his valet returned in his driest tone.

"And I couldn't desert them like that," Edward continued.

"No sir," the valet responded, his tone unchanged.


	43. Chapter 43

Plagues and famine, war and devastation  
No single disaster, tragedy or travesty of life can compare  
To the horrors of the wayward servant  
Fiend, miscreant, and irritant his master simply cannot bear.  
-- Excerpt from _The Trials of a Nobleman_, First Edition

Chapter Forty-Three

Edward was stiff and sore. He and his valet had been riding for almost a week, and he had lost all of his enthusiasm for this adventure; in fact, if he had not been so stiff and so tired, he might just have strangled his companion for talking him into this hellish nightmare in the first place. As it was, they had been riding through almost nonstop storms, in bone-chilling rain and wind, and at an annoyingly slow pace; and, while the latter issue was Edward's fault, as he insisted on making frequent stops to wring the rain water out of his cloak, he held his valet personally responsible for the other difficulties since this trip had been his idea.

Aside from being sore, he was also very tired, and very, very cranky. He had hardly slept so far, and his nerves were completely on edge. Every noise made him jump -- more so than usual -- and every flash of lightning sent his heart into his mouth, until, at last, he was a nervous wreck. Finally, the walls of the city came into sight. Then, after what seemed an agonizing stretch, they had reached the stables, left their mounts, and were heading toward the gate.

Edward was shaking with exhaustion and cold, but his valet seemed to be in high spirits -- a fact that served only to dampen Edward's own spirits further. "You know, sir," the valet was saying, "one of the reasons I was particularly anxious for us to head down here -- aside from it being just the adventure you need, of course -- is that there's a mysterious person who lives here; the folks around these parts just call him 'stranger'. There's something strange about that..."

"Oh, no?" Edward asked sarcastically. "I supposed they call him 'stranger' because there's nothing strange about him at all."

An eyebrow creeping up his forehead, the other man asked, "Is everything alright, sir?"

"No!" Edward shot back. "Everything is not alright! I'm freezing cold, I'm exhausted, I really have no business being here, and you're still breathing!"

The valet cleared his throat. "Yes sir...well, I'm sure these difficulties will all work themselves out once you rent a room, eat a warm meal, take a long nap..."

"Only if some friendly passing loon cuts your head off while I'm sleeping," Edward muttered.

His valet smiled, although very discreetly, and continued speaking. "And the sea here is just wonderful...you know, I haven't been swimming in so long..." He glanced around. "The lightning seems to have stopped...hmm, I just might take a swim while you take a nap."

Edward frowned at his servant. "But it's raining!" he protested.

A flicker of a smile appeared on the other man's face, as he answered, "Oh, good point, sir...I might get wet if I do that!"

Edward's frown deepened, and he wondered which god he should pray to in order to get the lightning to resume and strike his miscreant manservant. Finally, he decided a more realistic option was just to pray to all of them that his valet cramped up while swimming, and drowned.

Both men fell silent, and they had been walking without speaking for several minutes when the valet noticed Edward's lips moving ever so slightly. "Oh, I didn't know you were religious, sir!" he said.

Edward started, looked around rather guiltily, and then asked, "What?"

"Well, you were praying, weren't you?" Edward blinked, but said nothing. "I didn't know you were religious, that's all."

"I'm not," Edward replied. Then, glancing upwards, he hurried to add, "I mean, not terribly...but there's always room for improvement...if I could be convinced that the gods really existed, and were as benevolent and generous as they claim to be, I'm sure I'd become a very religious man."

Smiling discreetly, his valet nodded. "I take it then, sir, you were praying for good fortune during your stay here?"

"Umm, yes, you could say that," Edward said, avoiding the other man's gaze as he spoke.


	44. Chapter 44

Revenge is a sweet dish best served cold, much like ice cream.

-- Topic sentence of a grade-school essay written by Edward

Chapter Forty-Four

Edward stumbled, wet and weary, into the Count's Arms, an inn and pub in western Anvil. He glanced about, glaring at everyone in the room. He'd headed to the waterfront already, figuring that there would be cheap lodging to be had there; instead, he had very rudely been ousted from the only inn there, The Fo'c'sle, because he wasn't a seafarer. So, trudging back through the rain to the Count's Arms, he had come to terms with the fact that he'd have to pay a full 25 gold for his room. Needless to say, he was significantly less than pleased. In fact, he was so much less than pleased that he'd inwardly vowed revenge on the proprietress of The Fo'c'sle, Mirabelle Monet -- but not until he'd changed into dry clothes, rested, and eaten, in whatever order took his fancy.

As he clomped -- rather, sloshed -- into the room, staring daggers at everyone who dared to cross his path, a young man approached him. "Hello there!" he greeted. "My name is Velwyn Benirus, and you look like someone who could use a place of your own here in town. And it just so happens that I'm selling a beautiful manor house, full of character, because I'm moving out of town; and, since I don't have time to negotiate, as my business is so pressing, I'm going to let it go for the ridiculously low price..."

Edward turned malevolent eyes in his direction, and snarled, "Piss off!" The other man blinked at Edward's fury, and quickly absented himself. Satisfied by his success, Edward finished sloshing up to the counter, and demanded in his most uncivil tones, "You there! I want a room!"

Wilbur, the publican, cleared his throat, and said, "Yes sir. That'll be 25 gold."

"Highway robbery is illegal in this empire, you know!" Edward snapped.

Wilbur frowned, saying, "Well, sir, if you think you could find a better deal here in town, be my guest."

"'_If you think you could find a better deal, be my guest'_," Edward repeated in a mocking tone, flinging the gold at the publican.

Stooping to pick it up, Wilbur replied meekly, "Thank you very much, sir. Here's the key to your room." This, in turn, he flung at Edward.

Starting in surprise, Edward made no other move, and the heavy iron key flew into swift, painful contact with his jaw.

Wilbur smiled as Edward bent to retrieve the key. "Have a nice evening, sir."

Trudging up the stairs, oozing a trail of water behind him like a giant human snail, Edward thought, _"Well, now, that's one more to add to list..."_

When, at least, he'd reached his room, he plopped into a chair -- making a noise very reminiscent of a large stone plopping into a body of water -- and pulled out a soggy list from one of his pockets. It read as follows:

_*** Private *** _

_* * * TOP SECRET * * *_

_* Do NOT read *_

_* If found, return to Edward*_

_* Do NOT read *_

_* * * TOP SECRET * * *_

_*** Private ***_

_Retribution List_

_Imperial Guard who arrested me (he arrested me!) -- haven't been able to track him down...too many Imperial Guards_

_Imperial__ City__ beggar (pick-pocketed 3 gold from me) -- no luck so far...too many beggars, they all look alike_

_Headmaster George (geography teacher in highschool) -- bastard croaked before I shove those !#$#'ing globes down his throat..._

_Aunt Francisca (for sending those gods-awful outfits every Christmas, that Mom would make me wear all #$% 'ing year) -- died last summer, before I could have retribution...may she rot in Oblivion_

_Mom (for making me wear the outfits Aunt Francisca would send) -- CHECK...killed her pet bird, fed it to the cat, the cat choked on its beak_

_Valen Dreth (for taunting me in prison) -- update: DB wants him dead too, now I can get revenge and gold, haha, go me!_

_Vicente Valtieri (arrogant SOB needs to be taught a good lesson) -- might have to wait on this one...it probably wouldn't do much for my job performance if I attacked my boss_

_Valet (unparalled insolence, has no respect for me) -- postpone vengance while he's still useful to me_

_Mirabelle Monet (throwing me out of her inn)_

Frowning as he read over his list, he wondered if it reflected poorly on his abilities that the only person on whom he'd sworn revenge and actually been able to avenge himself was his mother. "_Nah,_" he decided. "_My mom is pretty tough...she can even out arm-wrestle me and everything! Anyway, it's always harder to exact revenge on your own mother because of family loyalty and feelings and whatever..._"

This point settled to his satisfaction, and reassured that he really was the skilled, ruthless adventurer that he imagined himself to be, he added the following line to his list:

_Wilbur (for throwing key into my face)_

Then, just in case the point had been lost in the header, Edward added the following at the bottom of the soggy page:

_**DO NOT READ -- PRIVATE DOCUMENT**_


	45. Chapter 45

Notice to all residents of Anvil:

Please note that repeated rumors have come to our ears of a gang of female thieves who use their wiles to prey on men. As of yet these rumors are unsubstantiated, but we advise all male citizens to use wisdom and caution if approached by any unknown females.

Anvil City Guard

Chapter Forty-Five

Edward had slept for a long time, managed to eat more than a horse, and dug up new, dry clothes. His valet had mysteriously disappeared, and Edward dared to hope that his prayers might have been answered -- although, at the same time, he felt slight compunction. _"If the gods really do exist, will they punish me if I don't keep my word? I mean, if they granted my wish, and I don't become super religious?"_ he worried.

This thought perplexed him, as he had no intention of becoming religious. "_Religion is for wimps_," he thought. _"And fools...only a fool would get involved with something that won't let you rob people, exact revenge, plot crimes..." _But, at the same time, if the gods did as he'd asked, what would they do when he broke his word? The gods weren't renowned for their graciousness when crossed...

To distract himself from this puzzler, he decided to go about his first order of business: revenge on Mirabelle Monet. Wilbur could wait, he decided -- Wilbur at least rented him a room, even if he did charge him an arm and a leg, and throw a key into his face. "_Anyway,_" he figured, "_no sense ticking him off further while I'm staying in his inn..._"

Strolling to the docks at a leisurely pace, Edward wondered how he'd go about exacting revenge. "_I could push her into the sea,_" he thought, adding ill humouredly, "_and, with any luck, she'll meet the same fate as my valet._"

At that moment, a hand clapped him on the back and an excited voice accosted him. He jumped a good foot into the air, spinning around to face his valet, who was saying, "Sir, you'll never believe my good fortune! I just met someone, Velwyn Benirus, who was selling his ancestral home -- a huge, beautiful manor right here in town, fully furnished -- and he sold it to me for 5,000 septims!"

Edward glared, mentally cursing the gods. Not only had they not answered his prayers, but they'd rewarded his wayward servant!

"Which means, of course, sir, that you won't have to stay in the inn here in Anvil! You can stay at my home!"

Edward brightened at this, but only slightly. While, on the one hand, it was good to save 25 gold a night, on the other hand, it was hard to do so at the cost of yet one more piece of excellent fortune falling into the lap of -- all of people -- his servant.

"Will you come take a look at it, sir?" the excited valet asked. "You'll love it, I'm sure!"

Edward frowned. "No, not now...later," he answered.

"Oh, are you sure?" the other man asked, clearly disappointed.

Feeling somewhat better at his valet's reaction, Edward declared firmly, "Yes, I'm on an important mission!"

"Oh, I see," the valet nodded understandingly. "Out to bring peace and justice to the waterfront?"

Edward shifted uncomfortably. No matter how hard he tried, he still found it difficult to maintain his equanimity when people started speaking of justice. "Umm, yes, something like that," he answered.

His valet nodded approvingly. "I'm glad to hear it, sir...the port is in need of a good cleaning up! Some of the people there...the things they do, and for the most trifling reasons...petty revenge, wounded pride..." He shook his head. "You'd be amazed, sir, at some of these people!"

Edward shifted again, feeling very ill at ease. "Yes, well, I have to get to work..."

"Right you are, sir!" the other man nodded. "I'll go tidy up the new house. Here, I'll show you on your map right where it is, so you can find it easily." With this, he did as he'd said, and then departed.

Edward watched sullenly as his valet departed. He couldn't explain it...no matter how hard he tried, he never seemed to get very far in life...and as bad as that was, to make matters worse, this lowly upstart, this trifling servant, had all the luck! "_Oblivion!_" Edward thought. "_I couldn't have even **afforded** that house, even if I had been offered it! How does he get the money to do that?_" Then a thought struck him. "_Probably from his thieving...after the gray fox invited him -- and not me -- to join the thieves guild._" His scowl firmly set, Edward felt like crying.

Then, catching sight of a tavern sign, he thought, "_I need a drink._" Edward pushed open the door of _The Flowing Bowl_ tavern with a shove, and stomped sulkily inside. "A drink," he said to the Bosmer behind the counter, "and make it strong. Very strong."

The publican nodded, handing him a mug of a very foul tasting brew, and Edward took a long draft. At the same time, someone sat down beside him. "Now, what could be bothering a handsome fellow like you so much that you need something that strong?" a soft, sultry voice crooned.

Edward almost jumped out of his seat, spilled the contents of his mug all over the counter and himself, and choked on the mouthful of brew he'd been about to swallow. Gasping, wheezing, soaking wet, stinking of alcohol and very self conscious, he turned to see the speaker. He nearly did a second double take as he saw her. She fit her voice completely, beautiful and a bit tawdry.

"And, as bad as it is, isn't there some way we could make it better?" she asked, apparently not even noticing his series of blunders, or the fact that he was drenched in and reeking of liquor.

Edward tried to speak, but couldn't find his voice. Instead, swallowing hard, he managed to nod his head and smile very stupidly.

"I thought so," she crooned, pressing a key into hand. She leant forward to whisper in his ear. "After 11...at Gweden farmstead, right outside of town. And I'll bring a friend, too..." She smiled. "Save your money, sweetie -- trust me, you won't need any more of this." She pointed at the now empty mug, and winked. Then she got up, swaggered to the door, turned to him as she reached it and said, "Don't you be late now," and then, as suddenly as she'd come, she was gone. Edward blinked, once, twice, and then fell backwards off of his stool.


	46. Chapter 46

When the lure of danger and adventure calls,  
When the innocent a protector need,  
To see them safely through tempests and squalls,  
Then the true hero their pleas shall heed.  
-- Ode to the Heroes Chapter Forty-Six

Edward was at his valet's new home, nursing a bump on his head and bad headache beside the fireplace. He noticed with only fleeting interest that the house, though in need of some minor repairs, seemed to be a very nice one; his mind was focussed on the girl he'd met at The Flowing Bowl. "_My valet was right_," he thought, "_and that's for sure! What am I doing, worrying about Antionetta, when there's gorgeous girls like that out there, who only have to take one look at me and they're smitten?_"

Then, another thought occurred to him. Despite the fact that he currently wasn't speaking to his valet, he desperately wanted to reveal his run in with that girl -- whatever her name was. This desire was only heightened in light of his servant's unflattering assessment of Antionetta's feelings for him. He sat lost in thought for several minutes, weighing the pro's -- rubbing his snotty servant's nose in his newfound appeal to the ladies -- against the con's -- acknowledging said snotty servant's existence. Finally, the temptation being too great, he decided on the pro's.

Waiting until his valet came into the room, busy about this chore or that, he declared very nonchalantly, "Oh, by the way, I should tell you...I won't be home tonight."

"Oh, another mission sir?"

Edward smiled. "No, I have a date with a hot woman."

"Come now, sir," his valet chided. "You don't have to lie to me...you know you can trust me not to give away your missions."

Edward's smile turned into a glare. "Lie?" he demanded. "I'm not lying, you stupid servant! I _am _meeting a hot woman, and her friend! She came up to me -- before I had even _noticed _her -- and invited me to her place, a little farmstead outside of town!"

His valet stared at him, somewhat stunned by the sharpness of his tone, but more so by his words and the fact that he seemed to believe them. "What was it you were drinking again, sir?" he asked.

Edward's glare intensified. "Who said I was drinking?"

An eyebrow raised, the valet answered, "Only conclusion one can reach, sir, unless you were swimming in alcohol."

Edward flushed. Though his clothes had dried, he still smelled very strongly of his very strong drink. "Someone spilled their drink on me, actually," Edward snapped. He was not technically lying, as someone had indeed spilled their drink all over him; he just neglected to include the fact that that someone was him.

"I see," the valet answered dryly.

"And, just because you have no idea what does and doesn't appeal to the ladies, I'll have you know that I neither hallucinated nor invented meeting her!"

"And she's beautiful?" the valet asked. "And not charging you for the meeting?"

Edward's eyes bulged. That was the last straw! It was bad enough when his servant doubted that he was the babe magnet that he was, but now to imply that he had hooked up with a lady of the night?

"Sorry sir," the valet hastened to say, apparently sensing Edward's fury. "But it just strikes me as highly suspect that a beautiful woman would be...well, interested in you." A second glace at Edward, who felt his blood reaching a boiling point, prompted the other man to hastily add, "I mean before she knows anything about you, of course, sir...before she experiences your charm and wit..."

"My wit and charm," Edward replied through clenched teeth, "radiate forth, so that she doesn't _have _to talk to me to know what a brilliant, sophisticated man I am."

"Hmm..." his valet murmured thoughtfully, as if to himself more than to Edward, "yes, I'm sure he radiated _something_, covered in his drink and doubtless tongue-tied or else babbling like an idiot...but sophistication?" Then, an idea seemed to come to the other man, because his expression changed very quickly into one of alarm. "Sir, this might be the gang I've heard rumors of -- a gang that singles out gullible men, and then lures them..."

By now, Edward had had enough. "That's right," he said, his tone dripping with loathing, "it _would _have to be some sort of mistake, or a gang of criminals, or something like that, for a gorgeous woman to be interested in me. You _have _to make up some sort of excuse to explain away the fact that she's interested in me, just like you had to make up an excuse to convince yourself that Antionetta isn't crazy about me. You know what, though? Just because you're a jealous nothing who can't stand to see my success, who is envious of my every achievement, nothing changes the facts. You are just a servant, whereas _I _am a somebody. And you know what else? You're not even a servant anymore...you're a _former_ servant!" He paused to regain his breath, his tone having reached a pitch that was almost painful to the ear. "Because I'm _firing _you, you worthless, good-for-nothing, half-witted, lame-brained, jealous bag of...of...of minotaur turds!"

His valet blinked at him, too shocked to say anything. Edward turned on his heel, and stormed out of the manor house. The other man stood in place for a few minutes, far too amazed to do anything else. And then he mused aloud, "My gods, he took that the wrong way...I wonder if it was the way I put it..."


	47. Chapter 47

Birds singing and twittering all day,  
Life goes along its merry way.  
Fools causing havoc where ever they stray  
Life goes along its merry way.  
-- The Song of Edward, verse One  
Chapter Forty-Seven

Edward spent the remainder of the afternoon in a very mature manner: getting utterly sloshed at his inn, the Count's Arms, and plotting revenge on his former valet. The business of revenge did not meet with terrible success, as Edward feared that his valet knew too much about his tactics for any attack to work; but the business of getting sloshed went off without a hitch.

When, at last, evening rolled around, a very drunk Edward stumbled out of the inn. Despite a handful of unfortunate run-ins with a few lamposts, a tree, and the town gate, Edward was able to make it outside of Anvil in one piece, and not seriously injured.

He'd found out earlier how to get to Gweden farm, and now he stumbled along the lane in that general direction. The night air was slightly chilly, but it seemed invigorating to him. The urge to sing suddenly came over him, and he found himself wailing boisterously and adding an occasional dance step to his walk, which generally resulted in a near tumble and last minute save barely preventing his face from coming into contact with the road. Yet he kept with it, tripping and screaming all the way down the road.

Finally, he managed to drag himself up a hillside and up to a little farmhouse thereon. Knocking loudly, he sang out boisterously, "I'm here, my beauty! Your Edward has come!"

The door opened, and he stumbled inside. His foot caught on a rug and sent him forward headlong, past the girl he'd met in the tavern and into the floor. He laughed at his own clumsiness, demanding in slurred tones, "Who put the rug there, eh, my beauty?"

The girl rolled her eyes, and said under her breath -- but loud enough for Edward to hear -- "Oh gods, this job gets harder every day..."

Edward picked himself up to a sitting position and nodded drunkenly, although whether he was agreeing or doing a chicken impersonation was less clear than he might have liked. "Farm work can be hell," he said. "And a delicate girl of a flower like you, all by yourself?"

She smiled maliciously at these words. "Not _quite_ alone," she replied.

"Ohhh, that's right!" Edward shouted. The girl grimaced at his tone. "You've got a friend!"

"Yes," she answered with a half smile. "Two of them in fact."

"Well, you picked the right man, then!" Edward declared, laughing very giddily. He tried to push himself onto his feet, but collapsed to the floor again.

"We sure did," the girl answered with a smirk. "Faustina! Tsarrina!" All at once, two other women, one an Imperial and the other a Khajiit, appeared.

Edward smiled stupidly but had a hard time forming a response. He wasn't quite sure what was going on, but he felt very light-headed.

The dark haired Imperial glanced at Edward, and then turned to the woman who had admitted him. "Signy, he's totally sloshed!"

The lighter haired woman, Signy, shrugged. "Yeah, but who cares?"

"How are we gonna get him the hell out of here when we're done?"

"Oh," Signy responded, seeming crestfallen. "Good point."

Edward blinked, his attention slowing with every passing moment. By now, he had no idea what they were talking about, and was concentrating on a strange phenomenon that he'd just noticed. "Pretty circles," he said. "Where'd they come from?"

The three women stared at him, but he was too busy looking out for the peculiar swirls of light that kept appearing, and vanishing just as he turned to them.

"See?" the dark haired woman asked. "He's totally out of it."

It was then that the light-headedness transitioned into full-blown unconsciousness, and Edward slumped to the floor.


	48. Chapter 48

His friends go about their daily business,  
They cringe and scurry away,  
Ducking and dodging he who is witless  
As he goes about his day.  
-- The Song of Edward, verse Two

Chapter Forty-Eight

Edward stirred groggily. He was only vaguely aware of a pounding headache, and a strong draft. He blinked, but shut his eyes quickly. "_Ye gods!_" he thought, "_My head! What happened?_" His mind presented no answer immediately. "_Did I get in a fight?_" he wondered. "_Have to rush to the rescue of some beautiful damsel in distress or..._" He paused, mid-thought, suddenly remembering. "_No, I got sloshed._" Then more memories assailed his mind, and he asked aloud, "And, speaking of damsels, where is that girl?"

Simply moving his jaws flooded his senses with pain. "_Good gods!_" he thought. "_I didn't drink _that _much, did I?_" After a few moments of contemplation, he acknowledged, "_I guess I did...but still...this is unbearable!_" It seemed like every tiny sound, the quiet chirping of a beetle, the creaking of his mattress as he shuddered in pain, the creeping feet of an insect scurrying across the floor -- they all stood out like thunder to his sensitive ears.

Then, all of a sudden, a wave of agony swept him as somewhere overhead a tremendous crashing of wood sounded. At the same time, the noise startled him so much that he jumped and opened his eyes. Light washed over him like a tide of bitter agony, and he crashed downwards whimpering in pain. But the noise upstairs did not subside.

"Anvil Guard! You're under arrest!" someone shouted. The words were lost on Edward, but the unbearably loud tone was certainly not. He wrapped his arms around his head and just groaned. The voice upstairs, accompanied by a clashing of weapons and armor, continued, "Put down your weapons!"

More feet continued to thump overhead, and a high voice, that of a woman, called out, "It's no use, girls. They've got us surrounded...give up so they don't kill you!" In response, a terrible clash of weapons dropping on wood, feet stamping, and shrill curses sounded, all together in a grand cacophony of noise.

By this point, Edward was attempting to smother himself with his pillow. He continued with this endeavor as a pair of heavily armored feet stomped their way down the stairs, jingled the handle to the room that Edward was in, and then, as it didn't respond, kicked it open.

"And what have we here, eh?" a booming voice asked. "Well, my lads, looks like we've caught the ringleader!"

Edward remained in his bed, writhing in agony and not even caring what they were talking about -- just that someone was talking.

"Really?" a different, but equally, terribly loud voice asked.

"Yes indeed," the first responded. "I told you this gang had to have a ringleader!"

Then the stomping of boots resumed, tramping closer and closer to Edward. Edward was groaning in pain, wondering why he hadn't seen anyone else in the room in the brief glances he'd had. "It doesn't matter," he thought, "as long as they just get him and get out!"

"Alright my pretty," the loud voice sounded mockingly, so close to Edward that he opened his eyes for a third time. Along with a fresh wave of pain, a wave of surprise swept Edward. There were two guards standing around his bed, on either side of him.

"What's going on?" he asked, his bewilderment getting the better of his pain.

"You're under arrest, that's what!" one guard seemed to bellow. Edward stared at him, stunned. "You didn't think you'd get away with this, did you? Being a sort of crime pimp, here in Anvil? I don't think so!" This said, both men seized him with gauntlet clad hands.

It was then that Edward understood the source of the draft he'd noticed earlier: he had, somehow, been stripped down to his loincloth. What was more, the cold gauntlets made his skin crawl in a strange, ticklish way.

The guards hoisted him to his feet, and prodding him forward with a push, said, "Alright, get moving."

Edward senses were swimming with all the movement, but the cold metal on his bare back was the most prevalent sensation. "Don't do that!" he said, laughing. "I'm ticklish!"

"Move!" the officers prodded again.

Edward, still laughing, pushed back, saying, "Go away, I haven't done anything!" He realized that laughing did nothing for his case, but he couldn't help it...he really was ridiculously ticklish.


	49. Chapter 49

Thinking that he is a hero,  
Whilst he annoys everyone he knows;  
Thinking everyone else is a zero  
While his own ineptitude shows.  
-- The Song of Edward, Verse Three

Chapter Forty-Nine  
Anvil was abuzz with the latest news. Most everyone had seen the three sirens taken to the castle in cuffs, but the real talk of the town was the nearly naked man who had been dragged through the streets toward the dungeon, giggling hysterically.

"He was wearing just a loin cloth, and crying and laughing, all at the same time!" one person said.

"And he had the stupidest laugh," another added.

"Oh yes! Such a ridiculous, high pitched, squealing giggle of a laugh!"

"I thought he was crying," one voice commented. "I saw tears running down his face."

"Yes, and he kept trying to shield his eyes from the sun."

"No, he was just in a stupor of laughter."

"Are you sure? He looked hung over to me."

"No, and anyway, the guard said he was the mastermind behind the gang, sending them out to pick up guys like a pimp, but then him and the women would rob them when they arrived."

A solitary figure listened to this gossip from a distance, looking in turns surprised, worried, and then deeply thoughtful. At last he left the crowd of gossips, and headed for his home. He frowned as he walked. "Could it be Edward?" he wondered aloud. "No, not even he would be stupid enough to get himself in a fix like that..." Then the frown reappeared. "Alright, but how could the guards think that _he_ was the mastermind of _anything_, much less a successful gang?!"

Certainly, it was a conundrum for our friend, who was, of course, none other than Edward's trusty valet. On the one hand, it seemed like the sort of fix that Edward would get himself into; and on the other, it seemed impossible that the guards would be foolish enough to assume he was a criminal mastermind -- a mastermind of any sort, for that matter. The valet entered his new home, sitting down to stare into the fire for a few minutes and think.

Meanwhile, Edward had been dragged, shrieking with both laughter at being ticklish and protestations of his innocence, all at the same time, to the castle, and promptly thrown into a dungeon. All at once, his laughter had subsided, and his headache and fears been allowed to dominate his mind. "_Oh gods_," he thought, shivering as the cold, musty dungeon air assailed his body, and his terror assailed his mind. "_What am I going to do? Those damn guards didn't even give me any clothes!_" He glanced about the cell, his arms pressed close against him to keep warm. He hated just standing barefooted on the floor, afraid to even think what his bare skin might be in contact with; and he absolutely refused to consider sitting or lying down on the dirty old bedroll on the cell floor. For the moment, the only thing he could think of to do was stand there hunched forward, his arms crossed and pressed tight against his chest, alternating standing on first one foot and then the next, his teeth chattering.

_"Oh Oblivion_," he thought, "_This is just ridiculous...how do I get myself into fixes like these? And to think that bastard of a valet was right...they _were_ setting me up_." Shivering, standing on one foot, and miserable, Edward felt an overwhelming urge to cry come over him. "They're probably going to string me up!" he whimpered. "And I'll never be able to do all the things I wanted to do...get rich, buy a nice, comfortable castle, marry a beautiful girl, keep a few hot mistresses on the side, raise a few kids..." He stopped to frown. He'd always hated kids...why in heaven's name did they come to mind now? "Well, forget the kids...I'll raise horses...lots of beautiful, sleek horses...be able to afford to do some real gambling...exploit the peasant tenants on my land..." His eyes were glistening now as images of the fun he might have had filled his mind. "And, when I died, I could have left my fortune to my children, my own, dear beloved horses, so that I could be assured that they'd live happily after I was gone..." His eyes cleared, and he frowned again. "Scratch that, I would have just spent it all while I was alive, living it up to the max...oh, what a great man I might have been! I might have been a somebody -- and, instead, I'm going to die here, like a poor hunted animal, caged and trapped, naked and shivering, frightened and abused, terrorized and mishandled, ill-used and..."

At that moment, he heard the outer door grate open, and his thoughts were interrupted. He started shaking violently, not from cold, but rather fear. They were coming for him...this was it...his final moments on earth! "_And what disgusting, undignified moments they are_," he thought tearfully. _"Alone in a cold dungeon, no clothes, about to be strung up for a crime I didn't even commit! Of all the ways to go...damn guards couldn't even string me up for something I've done, something great and glorious and truly evil and diabolical...instead, they have to kill me for something I didn't do!"_

The tramping of feet recalled him to the present, and he glanced toward the door. Two Anvil guards were visible, and a third man behind them. "Now you sure this scum is innocent?" a gruff voice – that of the first guard – demanded.

"Quite sure," answered a familiar voice.

Edward couldn't make out the speaker in the dimness, but he knew at once who it was. His valet had come for him! "_Thank the gods_!" he thought.

"You'll vouch for him?" the second guard asked. They had stopped outside his cell, and Edward could see all three men clearly. "You're sure that this bilge rat is a victim?"

"Quite sure," the valet repeated.

The first guard sighed. "I don't know..." he thought aloud.

"Look at 'em, Francis...he's pathetic...a sniveling, shivering, whimpering rat...he couldn't head up anything, much less a criminal operation!" the second guard countered.

"Hmm..." Francis mused, his grizzled face twisting in concentration. "You're probably right...and I suppose he'd be the sort that was stupid enough to fall for their tricks."

"Exactly."

"And," the valet interjected – and none too soon, as Edward was about to erupt in indignant protestations, "he is a material witness."

Francis grimaced in thought, offering up a second thoughtful, "Hmm..."

"I suppose that's true," the other man agreed.

"Alright then," Francis declared, "I guess we'll drop the charges. But we'll need his testimony to press charges against them."

Edward could hardly believe his ears. They were going to set him free! Moments earlier, he had been ready for death...and now he was about to be set free! His first instinct was to shout in sheer joy, but the reality that he was still standing practically naked in a dirty cell restrained him. "Ummm...can I have some clothes?" he asked instead.


	50. Chapter 50

Heroes risk their own necks -  
And no thanks do they get -  
To save him from his own wrecks.  
For, surely, he is a git.  
-- The Song of Edward, Verse Four

Chapter Fifty

His request for clothes having been granted, Edward was now seated in an office giving his testimony to a guard. That is, he was supposed to be giving his testimony to the guard. As it was, he had decided upon release that he was in no way prepared to cooperate with the authorities after his miserable treatment, and the fact that his property had been confiscated as material evidence. Even when they had told him that he was not leaving the castle until he did so, he was unmoved. So, he was currently seated across from an officer of the law, his nose tilted at an angle nearer perpendicular to the floor than not.

"Permit me to reiterate," he told the guard, quite condescendingly, "for I've not the slightest compunction in asserting yet again that I have nothing further to declare. This requires no further elucidation on my part, only cooperation on yours. Release me precipitously, and return my falsely appropriated goods expeditiously."

The guard stared at him. "What?" he asked finally.

Edward sighed an extremely haughty sigh. "My obtuse compatriot," he spoke, "my prolonged and unprovoked imprisonment in this hellish enclosure has convinced me of the necessity of removing myself from the abominable premises without further delay, lest I am unwittingly subjected to repeated abuses at the hands of the nefarious residents of this less than charming castle."

The other man just stared at him.

By this time, Edward had had enough. His thin patience had worn away, and even the satisfaction of befuddling this guard proved insufficient at the moment. "Let me go!" he shouted. "Just let me go, you bloody idiot!" This said, he added with a sniff, "Pardon me, that I should use words of such a minor caliber as those that have so bypassed your comprehension. I should have known your cerebral capacity would be insufficient to accommodate an intelligence as inane as mine."

The guard stared at him, an eyebrow raised. "Inane?"

Edward's cheeks flushed. "Innate!" he snapped. "I said innate...you just...misheard."

"Oh...I see...well, forgive me sir. However, as you know, I have orders keep you here until you give me your statement." Edward was clearly about to enter into another tirade, and the guard just as clearly wanted to save himself the pain of wading through vocabulary that was beyond his grasp. "And, there is a reward, as you know for information on these women. So, you would qualify for the reward if you give us your statement."

This revelation caused Edward to pause. He had been intent on ignoring any and all demands for information...but how could he turn down a reward, after all? "Well," he said hesitantly, "I suppose I might, for the good of the empire, and all that junk. But on one condition: that I get all of my property back!"

"Fine, fine," the guard agreed hastily. It was apparent that this man would be willing to do much if it meant getting Edward out of his office.

"Including the amulet," Edward emphasized.

The other man stared at him quizzically. "Amulet? What amulet?"

Edward glared at him. "You know damned well what amulet, you bastard!" he practically roared. "My amulet, the one those women took from me!"

Blinking at his fury, the guard seemed genuinely perplexed. "Sir, we didn't recover any amulets though."

Edward groaned. He wanted to disbelieve this man, but he couldn't. His perplexity spoke of truthfulness. And that meant only one thing...his amulet was gone.


	51. Chapter 51

Gang of Sirens Apprehended!

Today our news comes all the way from the distant port of Anvil, where our correspondent informs us that a notorious gang of sirens was apprehended. While there had been some misunderstanding regarding a certain vagabond male who was initially taken to be the orchestrator of the gang, our correspondent reveals that he was in fact a victim of the women. The guard with whom our correspondent spoke revealed this man's name to be either Edgar or Edmund, but could not remember which.

-- Black Horse Courier, Special News Bulletin

Chapter Fifty-One

Having been utterly defeated by the enormity of such terrible news, Edward had willingly cooperated with the guard. After giving his testimony, the other man – keeping his end of the bargain – had retrieved Edward's goods. All of them, that is, except for the amulet. That was, as he'd said, not there.

Edward, swamped in despair, had trudged out of the castle, to find his loyal retainer waiting for him in the courtyard. "Sir!" he greeted. "I'm glad to see you out. I was afraid the interrogation had turned...unpleasant."

Edward stared at him. "What?"

"Well, you were gone for so long," the other man explained.

Edward only grunted a sad, miserable grunt in response.

"Sir? Is everything alright?" the valet asked.

"Alright?" Edward repeated, marveling over the use of the word. "My world has been destroyed, and you ask if everything is alright?"

The other man cleared his throat tactfully. "Well, sir, I wouldn't say that...I mean, those women fooled a good number of citizens. From what I hear, most of the men in town. I wouldn't feel too humiliated, if I were you."

Edward glared at him. "Well thank you for reminding me of that," he snapped. "I hadn't even been thinking of how I was utterly humiliated, made to look a fool before the world. But you _would_ remind me of that, of course."

"Well, sir, I thought..." the valet began, clearly confused. "If you weren't talking about that, then what?"

"My retirement!" the Imperial bemoaned. "My retirement...those women, they stole it!"

His companion stared at him, clearly amazed. His expression seemed to say, "I knew you were capable of all sorts of stupidity, but I never imagined you'd be dumb enough to bring your retirement with you when visiting a remote cabin to see women you had only just met!" Aloud, however, he only said, "You mean, sir...that you took your retirement money with you?"

Edward, having caught the fleeting expression of amazement, stared icily at him. "It wasn't money. It was..." Then he broke off, remembering just in time that he'd lied to his valet about his encounter with the Emperor. As far as the valet knew, he'd never had the amulet. "Well, you see," he said, "I can't tell you about it...it was something that...well, that the Emperor entrusted to me."

The valet's eyes opened wide. "The Amulet of Kings!" he gasped. "I knew you had it!"

Edward stared at him in annoyance. "No, not that one. Another amulet. My retirement." He wanted to add, "_The bastard tricked me out of taking the Amulet of Kings_," but decided against it. It wouldn't aid his claim that he was the Emperor's son, after all, to go around insulting his "father".

His companion shook his head. "This isn't the time to lie to me, sir. I knew you had it. I understand that you couldn't trust your secret to me, but we've got a serious crisis on our hands. You have to trust me now!"

Meeting these words with a blank stare, Edward declared, "I have no idea what you're talking about." This was, in fact, absolutely true.

"Sir, I'm serious. We need to retrieve that amulet! The fate of the entire empire rests on it!"

"I agree that we need to retrieve it," Edward answered, his anger and apathy fading a bit, "but I'm telling you, it's not the Amulet of Kings. It's just my retirement."

His valet sighed. "Sir, I admit, I had my doubts about you...but if you had really just been planning to pawn it off, you'd have let your greed get the better of you by now. So, I can only come to the conclusion that you've been waiting for the right moment to deliver the amulet to safety. Where is it supposed to go? Who are you supposed to bring it to?"

Edward stared at him blankly. What was his mad servant ranting about now? What part of the truth did the man not comprehend?

"Friar Jauffre!" the valet exclaimed excitedly. "He was the king's secret confidante. You have to take it there, don't you?"

Edward blinked in astonishment. That's what that guard, the bodyguard who'd been escorting the Emperor the day he died, had said, wasn't it?

His change of expression had clearly been enough for his valet, who exclaimed, "Aha! I knew it! Now, sir, come -- you must trust me! If the Emperor trusted you, you must be the right man for the job. But, since the amulet is lost, let me help you retrieve it. As you know, my skills in that department -- shall we say, retrieval of property -- are...well, tuned to a finer extent than yours. So, let me put them to use for you, and the empire."

Edward stared daggers at the other man, and was about to launch into a tirade about the faulty comparison of their thieving skills, when he stopped short. Though he would never admit, he knew beyond a shadow of doubt that his valet's abilities as a thief were by far better than his; and here he was, offering him assistance in retrieving the amulet. "_Alright,_" he thought, "_since he's determined to believe that I have that Amulet of Kings or whatever, I might as well let him do the dirty work of retrieving my retirement source._" Aloud, however, he replied, "Well, perhaps I might trust you this once...for the good of the empire and all that."

The valet positively beamed. "Thank you sir! Have no fear, you will not regret your faith in me!" Edward resisted the temptation to roll his eyes. "Now, let's see...you say those women took it from you?"

"Well, they must have," Edward shrugged. "They took everything else. And how else could it have disappeared?"

The other man pursed his lips in thought. "They might have taken it, sir, but I doubt they knew its significance." Edward frowned at him, so he hastened to explain. "Riffraff of their breeding could never estimate the true import of such a jewel. They would just think it was some expensive ruby to be pawned off, or something of that ilk." Edward's frown deepened, but the other man was too lost in his own train of thought to take note. "So, they probably put it with their other valuables. Which means..." Here his expression brightened, and his eyes positively gleamed. "One of the guards took it!"

Edward stared at him. How his servant had drawn that conclusion was beyond him. In fact, it seemed downright silly. "What? Why?"

"Because they retrieved all the stolen property in their bust...which means one of the soldiers must have seen it during the raid, recognized that it was very valuable, and so pocketed it when no one was looking."

Edward frowned. "I suppose it might have happened that way."

"I'm sure it did," the other man continued excitedly. "In fact, I got a glimpse of the soldiers who came back from the raid...let me do a little reconnaissance, sir. I'll have your amulet back in a jiffy."

Edward's frown deepened. "And what do I do while you're off reconnoitering?"

"Well, sir, you can make yourself comfortable at Benirus Manor -- my new home -- and wait for me."


	52. Chapter 52

'Ineptitude' should be his middle name,  
And for his first 'shame'.  
'Fool' should be his family name,  
For they must be the same.

-- The Song of Edward, Verse Five

Chapter Fifty-Two

Edward sighed, settling into the sheets of his warm bed. His valet still hadn't returned, and he was tired and greatly annoyed -- so he had no intention whatever of waiting up for the man. Despite the rather rundown appearance of the house, it seemed warm and pest-free, so he figured he'd be safe enough sleeping there; plus, his servant's cursory repairs and organization had done much to improve the charm of the residence since his first visit, so his mind was easy about settling in for repose.

Sleep came quickly, and Edward soon embarked upon one of his favorite dreams -- where, traipsing merrily through the forest, he happens upon a chest full of priceless gold and gems. He had just reached the point in his dream where, much to his delight, he discovers the chest's peculiar property -- whatever is taken out of it is magically replenished in like kind -- when a strange noise interrupted the serenity of his fanciful, sleep-induced reverie. It was low, sullen, ghoulish and altogether unpleasant.

In his dream, Edward frowned. This had never happened before, and he'd had this same dream many times. "Go away," he told whatever it was as he glanced about the forest. "It's mine!" He shivered as the golden sunlight seemed to vanish, and a cold, dark fear settled upon the forest. The green grass and foliage was now a strange grayish black, and the peaceful woodland critters had morphed into terrible shadows and ghoulish apparitions. "No!" Edward called, throwing himself onto the treasure chest. "It's not supposed to be like this! Go away, all of you!" At that moment, a cold hand seized him, sending a spike of icy pain through his body.

Jerking to consciousness with a scream, Edward opened his eyes. To his horror, he found that the ghoulish noises, the terrible pain, and the fearful apparitions were all very much real; the only part of his dream that was not was the lovely, self-replenishing treasure chest. He was at that very moment surrounded on all sides by a small host of glowing, growling ethereal bodies, and he didn't even have unlimited wealth to show for it.

The unfairness of his predicament hit him hard, and he cursed aloud. He'd be willing to face a few ghosts for unlimited treasure, but this...this was just unacceptable. "Go away!" he shouted at the menacing figures, his voice sounding high and whiny to his ears.

Something like a low, rumbling laugh issued forth from the floating specters, and they continued to advance. Edward yelped in fear, and for the first time the peril of his situation weighed more heavily on his mind than the injustice of it. Scrambling as fast as his legs could carry him, he leapt out of bed and toward the door. The ghouls, not having to sidestep the bed as he had to do, floated in front of him to block the door. Edward shrieked again.

By now Edward's screeching had hit a frenzied pitch. He was trapped in a room, unarmed, with a group of terrible, ghostly creatures who clearly meant him harm. "I'm gonna die!" he shrieked. "Oh gods, oh oblivion, I'm gonna die!" There was no escape for him, he could see. There were ghosts to the sides of him, ghosts in front of him, and nothing whatever with which to defend himself -- not that he even had an inkling of how to fight these ghouls anyway. "I'm gonna die," he whined a second time.

The apparitions laughed their grotesque laugh and advanced in response. At the same time, Edward heard a familiar voice. "Hang on sir!" it called.

Of all the times that he'd been glad to hear from his valet, this time he was gladdest. "I'm in here, in the bedroom! Hurry!" he screamed, even as a ghost lurched forward at him, its ethereal arm sweeping toward his head. Edward ducked beneath the ghoul's arm, painfully aware of every second that it took the other man to race up the stairs to his rescue.

The ghosts apparently paid no mind to the advancing valet, for they continued their onslaught. Edward, ducking, dodging, and screaming all the while, was only just able to avoid being pummeled to death by time his rescuer at last appeared. The other man's brown hair seem to stand on end as he burst into the room and beheld the spectral beings, but otherwise he took the random appearance of ghosts in his home in stride. Instantly seizing hold of the silver dagger at his belt, he lunged forward at the nearest ghost.

Edward heard a hellish groan, and then another as the valet struck again; with the second attack, the specter seemed to disintegrate into a slow falling rain of ethereal dust, that collected into a pool on the floor. Neither man spent very long analyzing the creature's demise, however, as Edward was scrambling for the opening the ghost's death had made, and his valet was leaping forward to do battle with the remaining ghouls.

Not bothering to glance behind him, Edward bolted through the open door, nearly toppling his valet in the process, and down the stairs. Bursting through the closed parlor door, still shrieking as he went, his only thought to exit the premises as quickly as possible. He didn't notice, therefore, the disarrayed furniture until it was too late; and, before he knew what had happened, he found his foot catching on a tipped cabinet, and himself flying through the air.


	53. Chapter 53

Here Lies a Peasant. 'Nuff said.  
-- Graveyard Memorial in the Serf's Graveyard of Lord Udicio's Manor

Chapter Fifty-Three

Edward woke with a groan. His head was throbbing, again, and he was having a bit of difficulty remember what had happened last.

"Sir?" a concerned voice asked.

Suddenly, his recollections flooded over him, and he bolted upright, screaming at the top of his lungs.

"Sir, it's alright! They're dead!" his valet tried to yell over him.

But Edward continued his shrieking, thrashing his arms about wildly in a vain attempt to get up and escape. He was, however, too paralyzed by fright to do more than flail about, screaming.

"Sir!" the valet persisted, grabbing hold of Edward to shake him. "Sir, they're dead!"

These words broke through, and Edward paused. "Dead? You killed them?"

"Yes sir." Then the valet frowned. "But...were you just going to run away and let me fight them by myself?"

Edward blinked. Of course he'd been going to do that. Why was this crazy man even asking him that?

"Or were you coming down here to get your weapons?"

Edward blinked again. Clearly, if one was to judge by the other's tone, the idea that he'd been thinking of -- nay, in the process of -- abandoning him offended the valet's peculiar sensibilities. While it was the truth, and a darned sensible one too, it might, Edward reasoned, be wiser to lie. After all, if the valet wasn't smart enough to figure it out for himself, there was no sense in him knowing that Edward would abandon him in a heart beat when danger presented itself, was there? "Of course," he replied. "I was -- as you saw -- completely unarmed."

The valet nodded. "I figured as much," he said, his tone expressing a sense of relief. "That's why you didn't just take care of them yourself."

"Umm...exactly," Edward lied. If his retainer wanted to believe that he was willing to jump into the fray with any ghastly apparition at a moment's notice, or return to it to help a friend, who was he to convince him otherwise?

The matter apparently settled to his satisfaction, the valet nodded and said, "Well sir, the bad news is this: I think my house is haunted."

Edward rolled his eyes. "Oh, you don't say?"

"I do...which explains why Velwyn Benirus was in such a hurry to get out of town after I bought it," the other man mused. Then, brushing his reflections aside, he continued, "However, I'm sure I can track him down in the Imperial City and talk to him about it. But, enough about that...time for the good news: I found your amulet. Well, the Emperor's amulet."

"You did?" Edward asked, his eyes wide with joy. He'd all but given up on his retirement plan, and suddenly it seemed as if his sense of desolation may have been premature. "You're sure it's the same amulet? Where did you find it?"

The other man nodded, grinning broadly. "I followed my little hunch, and asked around a bit," he replied. "Sure enough, one of the fellows who participated in the raid -- Maridus -- had a bit of a reputation for taking advantage of his position, sometimes skimming things recovered in busts and all that." Here, he shrugged self-deprecatingly. "The rest was easy...just a matter of trailing him, breaking into his residence when he slept, and lifting the amulet."

Edward felt his jaws clenching. "_He's doing it again_," he thought. "_That pretending-to-be-humble bragging thing..._" Speaking aloud, however, he was all good cheer. This was his meal-ticket, after all, and he wanted it back. "Fantastic! I knew I could count on you, my friend!"

The valet smiled what seemed to Edward -- though he was annoyed to admit it -- a genuine smile. "Thank you sir, but I was only doing my part for the empire."

"Yes, well, why don't you hand it to me?"

The valet hesitated. "I don't know about that, sir."

Edward's expression froze. "What?"

"Well," the valet explained, "once Maridus realizes that it's gone missing, he's naturally going to suspect you -- since it was your amulet. Well, he thought it was. So he's going to try to find us -- you."

"Then we can get out of here, right away," Edward argued. "Just hand it over."

Still, the other man shook his head. "Don't you see, sir? He'll never suspect me. He doesn't know who I am. I think it would be much safer if I held on to it, at least until we got to Weynon Priory."

Edward blinked in frustration. "You mean...you hold onto it?"

The valet nodded. "Right...just until we get to the priory, anyway, where we'll know it's safe."

Edward's jaw tightened. "But...it's mine!"

"It's the empire's, sir!" his valet countered in astonishment.

"_Curse him!_" Edward thought. "_He's convinced this is the Amulet of Kings, isn't he? And he's going to be all patriotic and heroic and whatever about seeing that it gets delivered to that stupid monk._" Sighing in frustration, Edward realized that he was going to have to at least play along. "Yes, yes," he said, "I know that. I meant that it was my...task! My task."

"Your task, sir?" the valet asked, and, again, his expression conveyed relief.

"Yes," Edward lied. "Personally, from the Emperor in fact!" The other man's eyes seemed to glisten with admiration. "So, you see, you have to give it to me."

Here, the valet hesitated again. "Well, sir, I'll be the perfect courier for you, to make sure that your task goes off without a hitch."

This persistence was too much for Edward. Was it possible that his valet, even if he would not admit it to himself, harbored some faint inkling of Edward's real intent? "It's not the bloody Amulet of Kings!" he snapped. "It's just a stupid jewel that I...got from him for safekeeping."

The valet sighed and shook his head. "Sir, how many times must I tell you that you don't have to lie to me?"


	54. Chapter 54

The hands of fate could not slow,  
And so the witless messenger continued.  
But little did the fool know  
The import of the task he'd undertaken.  
-- Chronicle of the Oblivion Crisis

Chapter Fifty-Four

Utterly ignoring Edward's repeated entreaties, curses and threats, the valet had gathered up some supplies for them, straightened out the few things that had been knocked over, and been preparing for their departure when he'd stumbled across a strange skeletal hand and note. Not having the opportunity to evaluate either, due to Edward's rantings, he'd stashed them in his pack, and set out, the furious Imperial hard on his heels.

They'd made their way to the stables in much the same manner as they'd left the house: the valet leading, and Edward following, screaming at him all the way. During their journey, they'd twice been stopped by the Anvil Guard to see that all was well, and once threatened with arrest for disturbing the peace. Edward hadn't dared to share his woes with the police, fearing that they would once again seize his precious amulet, but, each time that they were out of hearing, he'd re-launched his verbal assault.

Finally, riding along the road toward Chorrol, the valet turned to Edward. "Sir," he said, "I'm sorry, but you know what I'm saying makes sense. Suppose he pursues us, and we are ambushed. You'll be the one they'll kill. So it doesn't make sense that you should be the one wearing the amulet!"

Edward stared at the other man, as aghast as he was furious.

"No offense, sir," the valet hastened to apologize. "I mean, you and I both hope that that doesn't happen. But we know that it might. So it's much wiser for me to carry it." He shrugged. "And, furthermore, I know the reason you don't want me to carry it."

Edward blinked. "You do?" Up until now, he'd flattered himself that he'd disguised his greedy ambitions rather well. Was it possible that his annoying servant had really deduced his motives?

"Yes sir. You're afraid that I will in someway mess up, and endanger the mission, maybe lose the amulet. But you've just got to learn to put a little faith in me once in awhile! I am not that clueless, sir!"

Edward growled under his breath. This was not going to be an easy journey, and, unfortunately, it seemed as though it would be a journey that he'd have to take. He knew well enough that there was no way that he'd be able to wrest possession of the amulet from his foolhardy valet; nor, apparently, would he be able to convince him either that the amulet was not the Amulet of Kings or that he should have control of it. So he'd have to wait this one out until they got Weynon Priory. "_Then he'll hand it over to me, and that idiot monk will tell him that it's not the Amulet of Kings, and he'll leave me the Oblivion alone..._" he mused. "_And then I'll have my retirement back_." As annoyed as he was, he supposed this wasn't as bad as things could get. "_Like if the jewel really was the Amulet of Kings, and this moron servant of mine insisted on returning...now **that **would be something to be upset about!_" he consoled himself.

His annoyance thus assuaged, Edward allowed himself to enjoy the ride. It was a beautiful day, free of the rain that had plagued his trip to Anvil. Plus, they were heading toward the midlands, and, to his mind, there was no place so wonderful as the midlands. That was the land of the Imperials, the home of the sophisticated, refined people, and as free of barbarians as one could hope a place to be.

"You know, sir, seeing as how we're going to be right outside of it, we should take the opportunity of visiting Chorrol," the valet spoke at length.

Edward frowned. "Why?"

"Well, it's a beautiful little town, sir. The people are quite congenial, and the architecture is remarkably distinct from that in the Imperial City."

Edward scoffed. "I've no desire to see a bunch of peasant's hovels, thank you very much," he declared superciliously.

The other man grimaced imperceptibly, but said in a tone free of expression, "Oh no sir, no hovels. Very unique, but charming, architecture. I'm sure you'd approve." Edward scoffed again. "And the people really are very nice. As a matter of fact, I've been meaning to get in touch with a friend -- Seed-Neeus -- for some time now, and just haven't had the chance yet."

Edward sighed. His servant always had a bizarre reason for wanting to go to these strange, primitive little towns...to see his fence, to meet a strange stranger, to meet an Argonian...but for him? Well, it always seemed that visiting a new town ended up resulting in an unsolicited tour of the dungeons. "I'd rather skip," he declared. "After all, the Emperor's business cannot be delayed."

"Hmm...true enough, sir," the valet agreed, his tone conveying some disappointment.

"We'll have to make sure to go some other time, though," Edward lied.

The valet smiled and nodded. "Yes, thank you sir."


	55. Chapter 55

History was to be made,  
By the strangest of all creatures.  
And the world to be saved  
By the oddest of coincidental accidents.  
-- Chronicle of the Oblivion Crisis, continued

Chapter Fifty-Five

Riding for several days straight, only breaking to make camp and eat dried food, Edward's enthusiasm for travel had waned, and then disappeared. His back and neck ached from sleeping on the hard earth, and his bones were thoroughly jarred from the constant riding. He was ravenous for "real food" -- anything other than foraged berries and dried meat -- and he was furious that his servant had still not relinquished possession of the amulet to him. His only consolation was that they had, at last, reached Weynon Priory.

He'd held his peace with his valet up until now, knowing that he could not alienate the man carrying his retirement, but was now eagerly awaiting the moment when, Friar Jauffre dismissing the silly notion that this was anything more than a deliciously expensive ruby, he was free to dispose of his treasure as he saw fit -- and, directly after that, his wayward servant.

Slowing their horses to a steady clomp-clomp along the cobblestone road, Edward and his servant entered the Priory grounds. "Here we are, sir," the valet declared cheerily.

Edward glared at him silently. No matter how sore, aggravated or tired Edward found himself, it seemed that his fool of a servant was, unfortunately, never affected.

His valet seemed not to notice his glare, however, for he continued speaking as though nothing was amiss. "There's the Priory House," he told his master, pointing to a large, elegant building, that seemed a cross between a manor house and a church. "You'll likely find Friar Jauffre in there."

Edward frowned at the other man, assuming a condescending air. "Don't be absurd," he told him. "He's a monk or preacher or bishop or whatever. He'll be in that building." Here, he pointed to the chapel. The other man seemed about to disagree, but Edward cut him off shortly. "Don't argue," he told him. "Just give me the amulet, and take care of the horses."

"Of course, sir," the valet returned. Retrieving the amulet from a pocket inside his jacket, he handed it to Edward. "I do believe, though, sir, that, if I remember correctly..."

Exhaling a loud, vexed sigh, Edward interrupted, "Who spoke to the Emperor? Who was given this quest?"

"You, of course, sir," the other man answered. "I just meant that..."

"Then stop trying to tell me how to do it!" Edward snapped. With this, he slipped out of his saddle in an attempt to imitate the suave, easy dismounting that he'd seen the Imperial Legionnaires do. Instead of landing effortlessly as they did, he fell heavily to the cobblestones and twisted his ankle as he landed. It was only his horse's presence that prevented him from collapsing headlong, and, even so, he found it difficult to stand on his injured ankle. Nonetheless, he was determined to make a brave effort, for he had no intention of diluting the strong, commanding, arrogant front he'd just established with his servant by injuring himself so clumsily in a foolhardy attempt to impress.

As valiant as his efforts were, however, he was unable to change the fact that his progress was slow, and awkwardly reminiscent of an inebriated duck's waddling. Nonetheless, he maintained his courage in the face of his trials, and, at last, reached the chapel. Pushing the doors open with difficulty, he limped inside. No sooner than had he shut the doors did his demeanor change, and all at once he was wailing and cursing in agony.

A rather shocked monk at the far end of the chapel looked up at him. "My good man!" he reproached. "Please, moderate your language. You are in a Chapel of Talos, after all!"

Edward glanced up at him, staring daggers at the man. "Talos be hanged!" he exclaimed. "I'm in pain!"

The monk's eyes widened in shock. "Sir, please!" he spoke. "Take care not to offend the gods, and not here, in our chapel to them!"

Edward's expression darkened, and he shot back, "The gods can go to Mehrunes Dagon for all that I care! And you can go with them, you stuffy little twit." Then, an idea coming to him, his expression froze. "You're not...Friar Jauffre, are you?"

The affronted little monk shook his head. "No, he is in the Priory house. I am Brother Piner. However, if it will cause you to curb your language, I can heal your injury for you."

Edward hesitated. He was in no mood to be courteous to an annoying monk -- and had been just about to tell him off but good, so soon as he'd found out that he wasn't the monk he'd been looking for. But, by the same token, his foot really did hurt...and, he didn't have the skill to heal it. "Alright, fine," he snapped. "Just get on with it."

The monk nodded, and began to chant what seemed to be a ritual prayer. Edward sighed in disgust. If his experience was anything to go by, the gods couldn't possibly exist. "_If they did_," he thought, "_my servant would be fish food at the bottom of the sea right now, and I'd be the richest man in Tamriel_." All at once, he felt a strange, cool surge through his ankle. "Ahh!" he screamed, breaking quickly from his reverie and leaping backwards in sheer surprise. "What in Oblivion...?" But, as he landed, he was suddenly aware that he experienced no pain in his injured leg whatsoever. His eyes widened. "You mean...it really worked?" he asked wonderingly.

The monk smiled. "Of course...an easy spell, really. Just asking the right blessing from the gods, you know."

Edward shivered, suddenly feeling not at all comfortable. "_Umm...sorry about that, Talons, or Tables or whatever your name is. I didn't mean any of that hanging stuff...and, of course I knew you existed. I, uhhm, well, ahh, thanks._"

His shaking continued until he was out of the chapel, and Edward breathed a sigh of relief as he stepped into the afternoon air. It was bad enough to insult the gods, but to insult them in a chapel? "_That_," he reasoned, "_probably wasn't the smartest thing I've ever done_." This realization come to, however, he promptly dismissed it in favor of other matters. "_Now, that stupid valet was right...he is in the priory house...how the oblivion does that man know things like that?_"

Passing the valet without so much glancing at him, Edward marched straight for the house. He might have been right, but Edward had no intention of acknowledging the fact. Reaching the manor, he stepped inside. It was a simply furnished affair, with practical but not terribly fine furniture, and little in the way of finery adorning the walls. "_How can these people live like that?_" Edward wondered in disgust. "_No finery? No riches? Just hewn wooden furniture, and so many books?_" He shuddered again, and glanced about quickly. This place made him almost as uncomfortable as the chapel, so the sooner he was out of it, the better.

Seeing no one about, Edward headed upstairs. "Hello?" he asked of no one in particular. "Father Jauffre?"

"I am Friar Jauffre," a strong voice called.

Edward jumped. He had still not seen anyone, and so was unsure of where the voice was coming from. "Where...where are you?"

"Over here, nitwit," the voice answered. This time, Edward followed the direction from where it came, and traveled toward it.

"Ahh," he sighed, rounding a corner and coming across a little enclave that he'd missed before. He was not, then, speaking with some sort of specter.

The Friar, an elderly but burly man seated at a wooden table strewn with books and manuscripts, glanced up at him as he entered, seeming almost annoyed by his presence. "Yes? And how can I help you?"

Edward drew himself up tall, and, assuming his most supercilious tones, declared, "I am Edward, who was hand chosen by the Emperor himself to deliver a message to you."

The Friar's eyebrows rose, and he stared at Edward, as though studying him. Then a light lit his eye. "Oooohhhhhh, you mean the escaped prisoner?"

Edward frowned. "Released, actually," he told the Friar, "by the Emperor himself. And wrongly and most unjustly imprisoned, although what business of yours that is I cannot say."

Friar Jauffre blinked, then apologized, "Well now, I meant no offense. I was just...trying to place you."

"Well," Edward sniffed, taking the amulet out of his pocket, "as I said, the Emperor gave me an amulet --"

He'd not even finished his sentence when Jauffre had leapt from his seat, sprung forward, grabbed the amulet, and returned to his chair, declaring tearfully, "The Amulet of Kings! It's safe at last!"

Edward blinked. The Friar was surprisingly nimble for a man of his age. "Ummm...what are you doing with that?" he asked.

"The Amulet of Kings?" Jauffre answered. "Didn't the Emperor tell you?"

"Umm...not really...you see, the assassin interrupted..."

"Oh, of course," the Friar said, nodding comprehension as Edward's lies trailed off. "Well, he wanted you to bring this to me so that I could find the lost heir and give it to him."

"The lost heir?" Edward asked. "I thought all the king's sons were dead?"

"Well, that's true, but not true."

Edward stared at him. "_Monks, politicians and philosophers_," he thought. "_Only they can simultaneously make two contradictory statements with a straight face._" Aloud, however, he said, "Yes, well, is it 'true' as in they are dead, or is it 'not true' as in they are not dead?"

Jauffre shrugged in an explanatory gesture. "Both."


	56. Chapter 56

Worlds of doom stirred outside mankind's door,  
So in whose feeble hands did the gods  
Place the fate of the world evermore?  
In those of one of history's greatest frauds.  
-- Chronicle of the Oblivion Crisis, continued

Chapter Fifty-Six

"You see," the Friar continued, "all of the kings _legitimate_ sons are dead, but there is one...Martin, his illegitimate son."

Edward blinked. "You mean, the Emperor had another son?"

"Exactly. He used to be a monk, under my guidance. As a young man, he grew eager to learn the secrets of the gods, as did many of his fellow acolytes. They threw themselves into study. They hungered to please the divines. Knowledge and servitude were their gods. You can guess the rest. They got in over their heads...too much studying, too much caffeine, not enough sleep. People died. His friends died. He put those days behind him, but the bitter experience drove him from our ranks forever."

Edward stared at him, an eyebrow raised.

"Anyway," Jauffre continued with a sigh, "he was weak. Disappointingly weak. He has since disappeared. We've had no word from him, no sightings of him. For all we know, he could be dead. But now...now we must find him." He sighed again. "And I suppose we must make the weak bastard king."

Edward blinked. "Wait...you mean the empire's only heir is missing, maybe dead?"

"I'm afraid so."

"And that really is the Amulet of Kings?"

"Of course."

"Then why don't I...safeguard it while you search for the missing heir?"

Friar Jauffre stared at him incredulously. "Don't be preposterous," he declared, assuming an almost bellicose air. "You are but one man, whereas I am the Grandmaster of the Blades. We Blades will protect it with our lives, guard it with our souls. Nothing, living, dead or otherwise will so much as lay a putrid finger on it!"

"Hmph," Edward snorted. "Weren't you the idiots who were guarding the Emperor when he got bludgeoned to death? If his brains could be spilled all over the floor while in your hands, I dare say..."

Friar Jauffre's eyes bulged as Edward began speaking, and he instinctively reached for a drawer. In a flash, he'd drawn a nasty silver dagger, and was in the process of rising, when he froze. "Oh," he said, clearing his throat abashedly as Edward trailed off in horror. "Forgive me...habit, you know."

His arrogance melted into fear, Edward decided it would be best to leave this place as quickly as his legs could take him. It was bad enough to be surrounded by potentially hostile gods, but there was no need to add deranged soldier-monks to the list. "Yes, quite alright. Perfectly understandable," he said, trying hard not to roll his eyes or bolt from the spot. "So, I'll just take my leave." Then, an idea struck him, and he added, "If there's no reward for me to collect or anything."

"Yes, you may as well go," Jauffre was saying. "I don't suppose you'd be much help in locating the heir."

Edward frowned. "_All this aggravation, and no reward,_" he thought to himself. "_I hope the damn priory burns down while they're all abed._" Aloud, however, he said in his most congenial tones, "True. Well, I'll be off now." This said, he took to his heels and practically ran out of the priory house, leaving Friar Jauffre lost in meditation, still toying with his dagger.

Once he was outside, the depressing reality of his situation hit him full force. His retirement was gone, he had not a penny to show for it, and he, Edward, had unknowingly held the Amulet of Kings in his own hands, and had missed the opportunity to make for himself a fortune like no other. And, to top it all off, his servant had been right about everything -- where Friar Jauffre was, what the Amulet was...everything.

It was unbelievable, tragic, and utterly depressing. So, Edward trudged toward the stables, where he assumed his valet would be, with an excessively heavy heart. "_At least_," he consoled himself, "_the gods haven't done anything awful to me, even after I damned them all_."

Nearing the stable, he broke from his melancholy reflection and slowed to a halt as he saw his valet and another man -- the stable-hand, no doubt -- gathered about a collapsed equine body. Recognizing the body as that of his horse, he ran forward. "My horse! What happened?" he demanded.

The valet looked up. "I don't know, sir...I can't explain it. The poor thing just suddenly dropped dead, out of nowhere."

Edward stared, open-mouthed. "How?" he demanded. "Horses don't just die out of nowhere! Something must have happened!"

"Well," the third man offered, "I did see...well, not to sound silly or anything...but I could have sworn that I saw...well, a bolt of lightning shoot out of the sky and hit him."

"Come now," the valet scoffed, "it's a beautiful clear day, not a bit of thunder. How could lightning strike this poor horse?"

But to Edward's mind, there was no mystery whatsoever. He began to shake violently. "Quick!" he told his valet. "We need to get out of here!"


	57. Chapter 57

Mehrunes Dagon is a pest,  
Mehrunes Dagon is our bane.  
Y'all better put him to rest  
Before he goes all insane.  
-- Music for the Legionnaires, sung by a trio of traveling entertainers from the western provinces

Chapter Fifty-Seven

Edward groaned. The gods weren't just revengeful, they were sadistic. They had not just killed a perfectly obedient and likable horse, but they'd done so in order to saddle him with the first horse he'd ever ridden...that nasty, disagreeable nag he'd stolen from Snak gra-Bura so long ago. The Priory, it turned out, had made an arrangement with Snak gra-Bura whereby she would bring her old horses, and they would send them out to pasture and care for them for what was left of their lives. Having none of the Priory's regular horses to spare for Edward, the stable-hand had given him this one.

So, trudging along slowly, at an unalterable pace determined by his horse, he and his valet had headed toward the Imperial City. The other man had attempted to convince him to visit Chorrol, but Edward was steadfast in his refusal. He was sick of the barbarians and barbarian outposts. He needed to return to the beloved stone walls of his Imperial City, the one civilized place in Tamriel. Plus, he still had a contract on Valen Dreth, and Dreth hadn't been released yet. "_I can't wait until we get there_," he thought, "_so I sojourn once more amongst civilized people...and so I can kill that damned elf_."

"So, sir," the valet spoke, interrupting his thoughts. "What did Friar Jauffre say?"

Edward glared at him. While it would never to do acknowledge the actual reason for his anger -- the fact that the valet had insisted on returning the amulet of kings, rather than allowing Edward to use it to enrich himself at the empire's expense -- he was nonetheless furious. "Stuff," he answered.

The valet frowned. "I really am sorry about your horse, sir," he said at length, "but there was nothing I could do...it happened so quickly."

Edward sighed. His valet was an idiot, with the perception of a dead cow...nothing more or less to it, he decided. "He said that he needs to find the remaining heir."

The other man's face brightened. "Then there really is another heir?"

"Of course," Edward retorted. "I told you all about me being the king's son."

The valet frowned at him, an eyebrow raised. "Are you saying, sir, that Friar Jauffre is...searching for _you_?"

"No," Edward snapped. "The old fool is looking for some twit who used to study under him or something like that, but disappeared a long time ago after a bunch of students died in some warped studying accident." Edward hissed his disgust, taking no note of his valet's expression.

"Indeed, sir?" the other man asked. "Did he give a name?"

Edward frowned, in part in concentration, and in part in aggravation. "He might have...I don't remember it though. And, anyway, what do you care?"

"I might know him, sir," the valet answered. "Are you sure you don't remember?"

Edward's frown deepened. "Quite sure...and don't be pompous...it's very unbecoming."

"Pompous, sir?" the other man asked, taken aback by the accusation.

"Yes, pompous! To pretend that you might know a king or a king's son..." Edward hissed in disgust, but hurried to add, "Other than me, I mean."


	58. Chapter 58

Where blood is let and lives are ended  
Where wagers are made and lost  
Where many aspire and few succeed,  
The Arena!

-- Song of the ArenaChapter

Fifty-Eight

Edward was overjoyed to finally be within the walls of his beloved Imperial City, safe from the barbarian hordes and their fledgling outposts and primitive towns. So glad was he that he forgot aggravation with his valet, the terrible loss of his retirement, or any of the other myriad things that plagued his mind. "Now," he said to his valet as they strolled through the Market District, "We've just got to go hunt Valen Dreth down. Well, I've got to."

"Yes sir," the valet replied nodding. "But, before you do, do you mind if I run into this shop?" Here, he pointed to Jensine's "Good as New" Merchandise.

Edward frowned, feeling somewhat annoyed. "Why? Have some hot merchandise to unload?"

"No sir. Jensine isn't a fence. I heard a rumor about a warblade, however, and I wanted to check it out..."

Edward sighed in aggravation. "Oh hurry up, if you must!" he snapped. His return home had put him in too good a mood to quarrel. Nodding his thanks, the valet disappeared. Edward, still annoyed, hopped onto a wooden barrel near the shop to wait for his valet to return.

His aggravation soon ebbed, however, as he gazed about the city. He was, he told himself, a great adventurer, like those of old, who had endured trials and tribulations in far-distant corners of the world, suffering at the hands of barbarians and fiends...but now the hero had returned home to his beloved city. He sighed contentedly.

So lost in thoughts was he that he didn't notice the cracking sound underneath him. All at once, however, the wooden top of his barrel seat collapsed, and he found himself rudely jerked into reality as he plunged downwards. Before he knew what had happened, Edward found himself half inside and half outside of his barrel, his head, hands and lower legs protruding, while his torso and upper legs were securely, and most uncomfortably, wedged inside the barrel. Feeling a thousand painful sensations at once, Edward tried to scream; but his compressed lungs had had most of the air squeezed out of them. Instead of a shout, he managed a pitiful squeak.

Powerless to move, and having extreme difficulty even breathing, Edward felt panic rising in him. Circulation in his extremities protruding outside of the barrel seemed to be cut off, and the rest of him, stuffed into a small space without regard to the proper working of his spine and body structure, seemed alive with pain.

Suddenly, just as unexpectedly as the fall had been, he felt the barrel tip, and could only watch as it came crashing down. "You there? Are you alright?" he heard someone ask. He couldn't see the speaker, nor could he even respond as the limited air in his lungs had been knocked out of him a second time in the crash. "Hold on a second! I'll get you out!" the voice continued.

Gurgling in fright, Edward was powerless to do anything except watch as the barrel rose into the air, and tipped upside down. For a moment he stared at the cobblestones underneath him. Then, all at once, he felt the barrel fly upwards sharply. He gurgled again, just as the barrel came downwards. He flew downwards in a flash, sure that -- he knew not how -- he was being propelled face first into the cobblestones. Instead, however, just as suddenly as he'd gone down, he went up again.

Feeling his brain bouncing up and down in his skull in a most frightening manner, he was still somehow able to make limited sense of what was happening. Something -- surely it couldn't be a someone -- was shaking the barrel up and down in an attempt to oust him. This something had apparently not taken into account what he, Edward, could see only too clearly -- that, should he shaken out, he would be propelled face-first into the cobblestones below. Each shake of the barrel knocking whatever breath he was able to gather out of him, however, he was unable to scream out for his would-be rescuer to desist.

It was no surprise, therefore, to him when the inevitable happened: after one particularly brain-jarring shake, he felt his body wrench free from its confinement and fly downward.

The next thing he was aware of was opening his eyes painfully, staring up into the blue sky overhead, the greenish face of an orc and the small, wedge-like face of a Bosmer. "Oh, great heavens," the Bosmer declared, "I thought Grul had killed you for sure!"

The orc flinched at the words. "Sorry about that," he said to Edward, shrugging apologetically. "You just looked like you needed help."

Edward blinked at them, slowly processing what had happened. "Who are you?" he asked at length.

The Bosmer gestured toward the orc. "This is Grul; Grul gro-Barak," he answered. "He's my servant. We were walking through town looking for...well, it doesn't matter. We were walking through town, and happened to see you fall into the barrel. Grul here tried to shake you out. Then you landed on your face and seemed to get a bit woozy. But now you're coming around."

Edward nodded slowly, wincing as the motion seemed to jiggle his already shaken-about brain painfully. In a warped way, things made sense to him now. "Who are you?" he asked the Bosmer.

"Name's Hundolin," the little man with bright hair answered. "I work at the arena." All of a sudden, staring at Edward, his eyes lit up. "I say, I think you're the one!"

Edward blinked. Maybe, he thought, he wasn't all there yet after all...how else could he explain what this little fellow was babbling about?

"I was going through town looking for...well, someone to fight in the arena."

"A champion," Grul enjoined.

"Yes, yes, a champion!" Hundolin agreed. "You see, we have a fight scheduled at the arena, but we ran out of-"

"Champions," the orc interjected hastily. "Great champions."

"Yes, exactly!"

Edward blinked again. He understood what the Bosmer was saying, but he failed to see how it related to him. "And?"

"And you're the one! The champion I was looking for!"

"I am?" Edward asked, feeling by now quite baffled.

"Of course! Look at that...that physique!" the Bosmer answered.

Edward glanced down at his still crumpled and cringing form.

"And the...the strength, the determination, the courage that just radiates from you!" the elf continued eagerly.

Edward blinked again. Did his inner character, his courage, his magnificence really shine forth so brightly, even when he was injured and weak, that this little Bosmer could recognize it so clearly, he wondered? He shrugged a little, as if embarrassed. "Well, I'm sure you're exaggerating," he replied, attempting modesty. His flattered, glowing tone, however, gave away the insincerity of his words.

The Bosmer exchanged a fleeting smile with the orc. "Not at all!" he hastily assured Edward, sounding only slightly more genuine in his praise that Edward had moments earlier.

"Indeed," the orc agreed. "Look at the way you handled falling into a barrel, with only your head and arms and feet sticking out!"

The Bosmer shot the orc a glaring glance of disapproval, but Edward didn't notice it. "The courage!" Hundolin hurriedly explained. "The steadfastness! Not a sound! Not a peep did you utter!"

"Not even when your face smashed into the cobblestone!" the orc agreed, earning himself a second glare.

But Edward was too lost in musing the Bosmer's words to notice. "Hmm," he said at length, "I suppose you're right...I do have that air of a champion, a warrior."

"A god amongst men!" Hundolin assured him.

Edward smiled. "I say, you're quite the intuitive chap!" he told the elf.

"Not at all," the other man assured him. "I only recognize greatness when I see it!" Edward's smile broadened, and he attempted to nay-say this praise in a most pompous manner. The elf ignored this, and pressed his advantage quickly. "So you will fight in the arena then?"


	59. Chapter 59

The vagabonds set on fame,

The fools who know naught their own inabilities;

The criminal who lusts for blood,

These are the snared who are lured to the Arena.

-- From _Arena & Contestants_, Edition the First

Chapter Fifty-Nine

Edward blinked anew, this time in surprise. "The arena?" he asked incredulously. All this praise was one thing, but actually fighting?

"Of course!" Hundolin exclaimed in most animated tones. "I can see it now -- the new Grand Champion of the arena! You'll be a star! The city will cheer you, love you, adore you!" He paused, glancing at the orc, who was standing about in a most uninterested manner. "Can't you, Grul?"

"Oh, umm, yeah, definitely," the orc answered in a tone that conveyed at least as much boredom as his expression.

The Bosmer seemed annoyed, but hurried on with his tale of the grandeur that awaited Edward. "Imagine it! You will be the star of the Empire! You'll have fans following you non-stop, at your beck and call, worshiping you, doing your every bidding!"

Edward hesitated. This sounded very pleasant, after all...and maybe this elf knew what he was talking about. Maybe Edward had that Champion blood in him, born to greatness that had just, somehow, eluded him up until now, and disguised itself in embarrassing incidents like the barrel episode of moments earlier. "Well..." he mused. "Would there be any money in it for me?"

"Money?" the Bosmer repeated, scoffing as though the answer was obvious. "Of course! More money than you could use in a hundred life-times! Why, a Champion of your caliber would end up richer than...than the Emperor himself!"

Ignoring the fact that the Emperor was dead and buried, Edward thought about these words for a few moments. "Well, it does sound rather tempting," he said at length. "I mean, I know I have what it takes..."

"Of course!" Hundolin assured him. "And this -- this is the perfect time for you to make your entrance!"

"Why?"

"Well, because...because there are so many people who have already bet on this match, and our other pit dog-"

"Champion!" the orc interrupted.

"Yes, Champion...pit dog is...well, arena speak for Champion, you understand?" the elf explained.

Edward nodded.

"Anyway, our other Champion had a terrible accident and died."

Edward flinched. As appealing as this all sounded, he still didn't relish the possibility of accidents and death. "Died?"

"Yes, but it was a silly accident," Hundolin hurriedly explained. "He...he..."

"Jumped into a pit of minotaur lords!" Grul interjected.

"Yes, exactly," Hundolin agreed.

Edward grimaced. "Why would he do something like that?" he wondered.

"He was...drunk!"

"Ohhh, I see," Edward nodded.

"Anyway, as long as you don't get drunk and go jumping into the minotaur cages, you'll be just fine!" the elf continued. "And, since we have this match all set up -"

"And stand to lose a lot of money," the orc muttered, which earned him yet another furious glare from Hundolin.

"This would be the perfect time to make your debut," the Bosmer finished. "You see?"

Edward nodded excitedly. "Yes, yes I do!"

"Excellent!" Hundolin exclaimed. "Then we'll see you at the arena in...oh, about half an hour?"

Edward nodded again. "Yes indeed! I've just got to collect my valet, and we'll be right over!"

The elf and orc nodded and made their farewells, assuring Edward yet again that he was destined for greatness, fame and wealth. Then they turned and headed toward the arena, talking quietly amongst themselves. Edward, in his excitement, heard little of what they said, although he did catch Hundolin's voice saying, "There's one born every minute."

Edward, for his part, hoped that this was not true. "_How will my greatness stand out if Champions are born all the time_?" he wondered.


	60. Chapter 60

Where fools become kings,  
And the worst are the greatest  
Heroes of which the bard sings,  
Come, but only if you're a sadist.  
-- Song of the Arena, continued

Chapter Sixty

Edward had excitedly dragged his astonished valet to the arena, explaining in rambling, self-congratulatory platitudes what had happened. Incredulous, the other man had questioned the veracity of Edward's story, pointing to his bruised features and wondering if, perhaps, the event had been a product of injury-induced hallucinations. This theory had been met with great disdain and annoyance by Edward, but, hurrying to his certain fame and glory, he'd had little time to set the miscreant servant straight.

Arriving at last at the arena, he was greeted by none other than the little Bosmer. "Ahh, the Champion approaches!" Hundolin exclaimed.

The valet stared at him openmouthed, but Edward took no notice. "Indeed, one Champion, as promised!"

"Excellent, excellent!" the elf returned. "They are waiting for you below!"

Edward nodded, and hurriedly headed in the direction the Bosmer had indicated. His valet trailed behind him, a confused expression on his face.

Edward's step was light, though he was still sore from his misadventures earlier. Suddenly, the world seemed very bright to him -- even if he was traversing a blood stained stone hall, that reeked in a most offensive manner. He would soon be a Champion, wealthy, respected and admired.

"Ahh, the new pit dog!" a burly Redguard greeted him as soon as he emerged into the dark, stuffy chamber below.

Nodding proudly, Edward declared, "You better believe it!"

The Redguard stared at him strangely, and then turned to an older Imperial woman. "It's illegal for us to send mentally challenged guys up there, isn't it?"

She shrugged. "Well, whose to say we knew? Hundolin sent him here, anyhow."

The Redguard grunted acquiescence, and then turned back to Edward. "Alright, pit dog, suit up." This said, he tossed him a suit of armor. A very heavy suit of armor.

Edward caught it, but, not expecting something so weighty, fell forward with it. Picking himself up gingerly, and laughing abashedly at his own clumsiness, he said, "Well, umm...that's a bit heavy, isn't it?"

"We're out of light armor," the Redguard sneered. "So you'll have to make due. Not that it's gonna matter anyway...you'll be dead soon enough."

Edward blinked at these words. "Dead?" he asked.

"What do you think?" the Redguard laughed.

"Wait, you mean...people _die _in these fights?"

The old woman and the Redguard exchanged glances again. "Maybe this is too cruel," she commented ponderingly.

"We've got a lot of money riding on this fight though," the man pointed out.

"True..." she mused.

"Wait, wait, wait!" Edward interrupted. "Nobody said anything about people dying!"

The two turned to him. "It's an arena!" the woman snapped. "Fights to the death!"

Edward balked. "To the...death?"

"Of course!"

"But...but I thought it was just...you know, until somebody surrendered."

The Reguard and the Imperial woman turned to each other again, bursting out in laughter simultaneously. "Surrender?" the Redguard managed to repeat through his laughter. "Nobody surrenders in these fights...you die, or you kill. Nothing more, and nothing less!"

Edward, meanwhile, had turned a chalky white. At this point, his valet interjected, "Look here, I believe my friend was misinformed about this arrangement. As he understood it, he was coming here to -"

"Don't figure it matters what he understood or didn't," the woman interrupted. "He's here, we've got a lot of money riding on this show, and we need a warm body up there."

Edward began to shake. "But they didn't say anything about dying!" he protested.

"That's right," the valet agreed.

The two Arena keepers shrugged. "So?"

"Well, my friend was lured down here under false pretenses, that's what!" the valet answered.

The Redguard laughed. "Look here," he said, "I don't give a sewer rat's tail about how he was or wasn't lured down here. After that last idiot got his brains pummeled fighting with the Yellow Team, we need someone in the show. So, unless you're volunteering to take his place, he'd better get up there -- and you'd better shut up!"

Edward's shaking renewed. "I won't go!"

"You'll go," the woman told him, rising and lifting a menacing looking sword.

"Or you'll die right here and right now," the Redguard finished, drawing a sword of his own.


	61. Chapter 61

Taste the fear,  
Fear the steel,  
Steal the lives,  
Live after the fight!  
-- In the Arena!

Chapter Sixty-One

Edward's valet grimaced. He couldn't believe it. Not only had Edward been foolish enough to get himself into a fix like this, but now he had to save his neck...again. At least, he thought, the arena keepers -- Owyn the Redguard and Ysabel Andronicus the Imperial -- had let them go as a team. Indeed, the suggestion had been met with surprised pleasure by the two, who had easily been able to convince the Yellow Team -- which, apparently, they were about to fight -- to throw another pit dog into the arena.

Half wondering if it wouldn't have been easier just to take on Owyn and Ysabel, he sighed. Even if they had fought the two battle hardened former gladiators, no one would have taken their word that they were being kept prisoner in the arena bloodworks. "Oh well," he thought, "this is the only way to do it I guess."

Meanwhile, Edward was shaking so forcefully that his armor was rattling in a sound reminiscent of chimes in a fierce wind. "We're going to die..." he was whimpering.

The valet sighed. "Of course we're not, sir. All we've got to do is win this fight, and then we'll be free to go."

Edward shot him a disparaging look. "Well, in that case..." he mocked. Then, whining again, "We're going to die!"

"Only if we have attitudes like that, sir!" the valet cheerily returned. "I know this head-on combat thing isn't your forte, but all you've got to do is your best. There's only going to be two or three of them, and they're just pit dogs!"

"_Just _pit dogs!" Edward gasped. He still hadn't realized that pit dog was not, in fact, a compliment.

"That's right. So, we've just got to work together, and all will be well."

Edward felt faint and queasy. But there was no time to argue. All at once, a booming voice declared, "Good people of the Imperial City ! Welcome to the arena! Today our entertainment is provided by two packs of pit dogs: on the Yellow Team, a Bosmer, an Imperial and an Argonian. And on the Blue Team, two Imperials. Can these two Imperials hope to stand against so many? We shall see! Let the games begin!" With that, the iron grate came down.

Edward stood, shaking, watching the Yellow Team combatants enter the arena. "Come on, sir," his valet whispered. "We can take them!" With these words the other man ran forward, his blade flashing.

Edward was too frightened to move. He could only watch as his valet charged valiantly into combat, ducking the fists of the Argonian and the blade of the Imperial. He saw him charge up to the Bosmer, who had loosed two arrows -- loosed, and missed both times -- and was fiddling with a third. He watched as his servant brushed aside the bow, and brought the hilt of his sword down upon the Bosmer's head with a heavy crash. Then he watched as the little elf collapsed to the ground, not dead -- so it seemed, at least -- but unconscious.

By now the Argonian and Imperial had advanced upon his valet, and Edward cringed as a heavy, scaled fist impacted with his teammate's side. The valet went down, but only in order to sweep the legs out from under his attacker. Somehow, this scene roused Edward from his indolence, and he found himself charging into battle. It might have been the fact that the Yellow Team had their backs to him, or it might have been some rare shred of courage or loyalty that prompted him to advance. Either way, advance he did, and before he knew it, he was in the thick of battle.

He was amazed to see that his valet was not fighting the Argonian, who relentlessly pursued him, but rather dodging his blows. Likewise, he was not attempting to kill the Imperial swordsman, but rather to disarm him. Scoffing, Edward readied his sword, and charged forward. He was not above killing these men, even if his foolish servant was willing to risk his life.

The Argonian, however, must have sensed his presence, because -- just as Edward was readying to plunge his sword into the other man's back -- he swung about, planting a hard fist into Edward's jaw. Edward's senses reeled, and then he went down.


	62. Chapter 62

Fight, like you've never fought before.  
Fight, if you want to fight some more.  
Fight, because they'll laugh if you die.  
Fight, and don't dare pause to ask why.  
-- The Gladiator's Song

Chapter Sixty-Two

When Edward awoke, he was back in the bloodworks. The Battle Matron was leaned over him, apparently tending a wound on his head. "Ahh!" Edward screamed at the sight of her. His last memories of the woman, after all, were her sending him to his death.

"Relax, pit dog," she was saying. "After what your friend did up there, I guess you've earned our respect."

"Friend? What?" Edward wondered. The last thing he remembered was a scaly fist impacting sharply with his jaw.

"Your friend...the one who spared the Yellow Team combatants. After that fight, half the team chickened out of their contracts, and left the arena," she answered.

From somewhere to the side, he heard the Redguard laugh. "It will take them weeks to recover from that," he said.

Edward blinked uncomprehendingly. "Left? Why?"

"Because they saw how easy it was for a real fighter to kick their lily-livered behinds -- without even killing them," the matron answered. "Now, for the love of Talos, stay still! How am I supposed to clean your cuts out, if you don't?"

Edward groaned. He still wasn't sure of what had happened, but he'd got the general idea. But where was his valet now?

"And don't worry about him," she continued, "He made it out fine. He's talking with The Gray Prince now."

This was quite true, for, at that very moment, Edward's valet and the Arena Grand Champion, an orc known as 'The Gray Prince', were deep in conversation. "I have to say," the orc was saying, "I was quite impressed with you up there...risking your own neck to save those guys, instead of just taking them down, when you could have easily done so..."

The valet shrugged. "Well, I never intended to be an Arena fighter, you know. I didn't want to kill anyone or anything. Just to win the match and get out."

The Gray Prince nodded, watching the Imperial for a few minutes. "I say," he said, "you seem to be a good sort of person. Can I ask you to do me a favor?"

"Of course," the valet nodded.

"How would you like to fight me?"

"Fight you?" the Imperial repeated in surprise.

"Yes, fight me," the orc answered. "Not really...I mean, just go into the Arena, and pretend to kill me."

"Pretend to kill you?" the valet asked, his brow creasing perplexedly. "But...why?"

Agronak's eyes darted about quickly, as if he was afraid of being overheard, and he answered in a low, ponderous tone, as though he was choosing his words carefully. "I'm tired of...the fame. You know...media, screaming fans...all of that. I want to start my life over, in private. If the Gray Prince dies, Agronak gro-Malog can be reborn...a simple orc, living his life in private and quiet."

The Imperial frowned. "I see what you're saying," he said. "But won't they -- the fans and whatnot -- follow me instead?"

The Gray Prince shook his head. "No, no," he answered. "They follow me because I've spent years building my reputation as the Grand Champion. You'll just be a lucky lug who happened to get a good strike in."

The Valet continued to frown in concentration. "Alright," he said at last, "I can't see any harm in doing it."

The Gray Prince positively beamed, and grabbed the other man's hand to shake it vigorously. "Thank you!" he declared. "Thank you very much!"

Meanwhile, lying still as a stinging ointment was applied to his wounds, Edward sighed inwardly. "_Why_," he wondered, "_am I such a caring guy? Why do I always have to put my own life on the line for inept idiots like that servant of mine? When will I ever learn to ignore the peons in order to keep myself out of scrapes like this?!_"


	63. Chapter 63

Fame, oh joy and bane of man  
Desired when not possessed  
But despised when had  
Fame, ye treacherous beast.  
-- Song of the Champions

Chapter Sixty-Three

Edward was seated on a table in the bloodworks, glowering. His Valet and The Gray Prince had just left to fight one another in the Arena, and -- having missed their conversation -- he was furious. "_Who does that SOB think he is_," he wondered, "_running off and getting himself killed instead of being my servant?!_" In Edward's mind, there was no doubt whatsoever that his valet would die in this match. "_Well, he better not look to me to take care of him if he comes out of there mutilated or half-dead_," he decided. "_He can go to Oblivion for all that I care, after turning his back on his sacred duty to serve me in order to fight for vain glory._" It was for that reason that Edward had not gone into the Arena with the other spectators -- that, and that he'd have to bet on the championship to get in...and, while he wouldn't have minded making a quick buck betting on his friend's certain death, he'd somehow run out of money...again.

And yet, if only for the satisfaction of seeing his valet dragged, a bloody mess, back into the bloodworks, he'd decided to wait until after the fight to leave. He could hear the shouting, cheering and jeering overhead, and the booming voice of the announcer above all that. "Good people of the Imperial City ," it called, "today our match is epic! A pit dog -- that's right, ladies and gentlemen, a pit dog! -- has challenged The Gray Prince himself!" Uproarious laughter, more cheers and more jeers followed. Then the announcer continued. "This will be almost painful to watch...but, in his benevolence, our Grand Champion has obliged the suicidal pit dog. So, without further ado...let the match begin!"

Edward heard the grating of iron as the gates were lowered, but the rest was lost in the tidal wave of excited fans' cheering. Edward sighed. Was it possible, he wondered, that he was actually worried about his servant? Was it possible that that was the reason that he was waiting? Dismissing the idea with a scoff, Edward's glare intensified. He, Edward, did not worry about servants. Indeed, he had himself wanted to kill his valet on many occasions. So why then was this annoying fear gnawing at his stomach?

It was far beneath a man of his dignity to care what befell his servant, so these apprehensions -- even if he wouldn't acknowledge them -- were downright embarrassing to Edward. His glare and ill humor intensified with every bit of compassion and fear that he felt, so soon he outmatched even the dour Battle Matron and Blademaster with his excessive petulance.

It was impossible to tell over the cacophony of noise above what was happening, so Edward sat in ill-humored silence for several moments. Then, all at once, everything fell silent; and suddenly a collective gasp -- audible even to those in the bloodworks -- rose from the crowd of spectators.

Edward's expression grew darker yet. It was done, then, he assumed. His valet was dead.

And then, as suddenly as the silence had descended, an uproar of cheers and chanting filled the air. "Dragonheart! Dragonheart! Dragonheart!" the crowd seemed to be calling in unison.

Edward's frown shifted, but remained. "_Dragonheart?_" he wondered. "_Who the oblivion is Dragonheart? What about that stupid Gray Prince, and my jackass servant?_"

Then, almost in answer to his pondering, the announcer's voice declared, "Citizens...I am amazed! _We _are amazed! This upstart, the pit dog, has defeated The Gray Prince!" Edward leapt to his feet in sheer astonishment; but the announcer continued. "This has to be...well, the most spectacular fight I have ever seen, and the most unorthodox path a Grand Champion has ever followed...but...it is my pleasure to announce our City's new Grand Champion: Dragonheart!"


	64. Chapter 64

A New Grand Champion Declared: Dragonheart!

With heavy heart for he who is passed, and eager admiration for he who has replaced him, it is our duty to report an unusual – nay, astonishing! – day at the Imperial Arena. The Gray Prince, whom we have all so long loved as Grand Champion, answered the challenge of a newcomer, a mere Pit Dog! These two met in the Arena this very afternoon, and, in a stupendous clash of daring and virility, the Grand Champion was felled, and the Pit Dog declared the winner – and our new Champion. Dragonheart – our Champion's name – was seen leaving the Arena in the company of many adoring fans. Your correspondent was unable to speak with him, but will continue to attempt to do so in order that the public may ever remain abreast of the goings-on of our glorious city!

-- Black Horse Courier, Special News Bulletin

Chapter Sixty-Four

Edward was greatly annoyed as he and his valet left the Arena. Not only had he wasted his time -- not to mention, soiled his dignity -- worrying about a lowly servant, but the lowly servant hadn't even had the decency to die so that his sacrifice might be worthwhile! Instead, the lowly servant had somehow won the match, and become the new Grand Champion.

"Come on, sir," the valet was saying, "I know it was longer than you wanted to stay. But I had to do that!"

Edward shot him a disparaging look, but stepped aside so that his servant could open the door for him. The valet did so, and Edward stepped outside into the crisp early afternoon air, his head held high despite the internal sting of wounded pride.

To his horror, he found that he'd emerged into a swarm of buzzing, chirping, twittering fans, all screaming for their idol, the new Grand Champion. Edward's lip curled in disgust, and he sneered most disdainfully, "Be gone, vile insects!"

The vile insects, however, had no intention of complying. Instead, they shoved Edward aside and swarmed about his valet. His valet stood heads above the crowd, which seemed to be composed mostly of short Bosmer youth with brightly colored hair and odd hair styles. He, as Edward had been, was somewhat taken aback by the swarm. "Why, umm, thank you," he said as they shouted their salutations.

"Oh, by Azura, by Azura, by Azura!" one voice, higher than all the rest, called, "I can't believe it! It's the Grand Champion! Standing here, next to _me_!"

Edward, rising haughtily and glaring furiously at the backs of the brightly colored-heads -- which were, at this point, all that was really visible to him -- spoke. "Go away, you filthy children! Go pester someone else!" Still shouting their praises of his servant, the fans ignored Edward entirely. This was particularly horrifying to the Imperial, as he'd not only, most brusquely, been shoved aside in order that these monsters might worship his servant -- his servant! -- but now they completely ignored him, as if he did not even exist!

One voice in particular continued with fervent admiration. "Oh, great and mighty Grand Champion, I'm going to follow you and watch you and worship the ground you walk on!"

Edward pinpointed this voice to a short elf wearing a peculiar, poofy twist of bright yellow hair atop his head. "You! Ice-cream-head!" Edward called, poking the little fellow. "Get! You and your buddies!"

The Bosmer turned about fiercely at this nudge, shoving Edward away savagely. "Stay away from my god!" he snarled.

Edward recoiled a step, surprised by the vehemence of this strange, style-challenged elf. "He may be your god," he snapped, "but he's my servant -- and you're interfering with his duties!"

The Bosmer seemed to ignore his words as an inspired gleam lit his eyes. Spinning about quickly, he declared fervently, "Oh, Grand Champion, let me be your servant! Your slave! I will follow you everywhere, do whatever you require done, and worship you -- always worship you!"


	65. Chapter 65

No ingrate so vile as the servant,  
Who values not his master's benevolence  
And who respects not his years of service  
Who forgets all he owes his gracious master.  
-- Excerpt from _The Trials of a Nobleman_, First Edition

Chapter Sixty-Five

Edward was trying hard, and failing miserably, to remain calm. It had been difficult, but he and his valet had managed to shake the eccentric crowd of fan boys and girls -- all but one. This one, the strange, yellow haired fan, had not relented in his pursuit. Both men, weary by running, dodging and ducking from their pursuers, had eventually given up attempting to shake him, figuring he'd eventually tire of his tedious endeavor.

So far, however, he'd done no such thing. Instead, he had prattled on nonstop about his joy at being near, so near, to his god, the Grand Champion. "Oh, I can't believe this!" he was telling Edward's valet. "You're the best, do you know that? The absolute best! What other Grand Champion would allow me -- me! -- to travel with him? Not that Gray Prince, I'll tell you that much. Oh no, he would chase me off, and threaten me, and he even accidentally pushed me off of a few cliffs...but even then, I never tired of being his happy fan! The Grand Champion needs a loyal subject, an eager, abject slave. And now that you're the Grand Champion, I'm so happy -- because you'll be more careful, won't you? I barely escaped that last accident, you know." Here, the fan broke off to take a deep gasping breath; but, the next moment, he'd continued his monologue.

The Valet, however, ignored him as he prattled on, lost in thoughts of his own. "Hmmm..." he said aloud. "I wonder if he's the reason the Gray Prince asked me to fight..."

Edward stared at the other man. "I thought you challenged him?"

The Valet glanced behind him discreetly, saw that the adoring fan was still prattling on excitedly and paying no mind to their conversation, and then shook his head. "No sir. He said he wanted to stage his own death...something about needing a break from the fame, and to get away from the fans...do you think it might have been...?"

"The annoying twit with the ice-cream twist hair-do?" Edward spit out. "Gee, you think so?"

His valet frowned. "I think you could be right, sir. But then he must have known that he'd start following me." Edward glared at him. "I wonder that he was so dishonest with me!"

Edward hissed in disgust. "What is with you?" he demanded. "Why must you always think that people are nice? Don't you get it? People are looking for the saps, the suckers, the morons -- morons like you, that they can bamboozle without difficulty!" His servant stared at him, but he continued, his tone laced with contempt for both his servant and people in general. "You don't look at life realistically. You see people as these nice creatures, out to do right by everybody. You don't see people for what they really are!"

"And what is that, sir?" the valet ventured.

"Disgusting, grimy, conniving, sticky-fingered, mealy-mouthed filth!" Edward spat out. "Always looking to make a buck at the cost of their fellow man, to advance themselves at the cost of another, to damn the world if it benefits themselves!" The fact that he might have been painting a self-portrait -- albeit a none-too-flattering one -- seemed to escape Edward, who continued in disgust, "They aren't to be trusted! You have to stop thinking that people mean what they say! They don't!"

The valet sighed. "Well, you might be right sir, in some respect anyway. Sometimes I _do _put too much faith in other people."

"That's an understatement!" Edward hissed. "It's a disease with you!"

"Well, I don't know about that, sir..."

"It is!" Edward insisted. "It's a sickness! There's something wrong with you! You don't have those protective instincts, that natural intuition to mistrust and loathe your fellow man!"

The valet frowned. "Well, I don't think _that's_ necessary, sir."

"Which is exactly why you end up in fixes like this!" Edward declared haughtily, as if he'd, in that single statement, won the argument.

The valet's frown intensified. "Well, sir, you end up in fixes too, sometimes."

Edward gaped at him. "Me? End up in fixes? When?!"

"Well, sir, this whole arena thing, for starters," the valet pointed out.

Edward glared at him. "I was lied to!"

"Well yes sir, I know that," the other man agreed. "But, still, you believed someone when they were lying to you."

Edward's glare intensified. "But I wasn't the one who wanted to stay around and play Mr. Hero with that filthy orc, was I?" he demanded. "And, anyway, everyone's bound to slip up once in awhile...but, unlike you, I don't make a habit of it!"

The valet frowned again. "Well, sir, actually, I think you've been in more fixes than I have."

Edward positively gaped at his insolent servant. "How dare you?!" he wondered at the man's impertinence. "How dare you lie to my face like that?"

"It's not a lie, sir," the valet answered. "In fact, I think, if you were to count the times, you'd agree that you've found yourself in trouble more often than I have."

Edward stared daggers at his companion. "I think not, Mr. Champion. Mr. Champion who owns a haunted manor, I might add!"

"Well, sir, not to put too fine a point on it, but let's not forget about those three women in Anvil..."

Edward's eyes bulged in horror. "Bringing that up is just...just fighting dirty!" he hissed. "Let's not forget that this is coming from the idiot who believed me all that time when I said that I didn't have the Amulet of Kings!"

The valet shrugged. "Not all the time, sir...I did have my doubts. And let's not forget that time..."

So it was that the trio passed through Green Emperor Way, Edward and his valet arguing heatedly about who was more prone to find himself in a fix, and the adoring fan babbling on with his praise as though they were actually listening to him.


	66. Chapter 66

Over things large and small, disputes arise among us all,  
Friend or foe, we are not immune.  
The civilized employ words, in order to resolve their issues  
And the uncivilized, they resort to violence.  
-- _Treatise on Quarrels_, Father Agrid

Chapter Sixty-Six

Edward and his valet's disagreement had descended into a heated, shouted monologue – from Edward. At the moment, he was screaming profanities at his servant, and at the same time demanding an apology. Meanwhile, the adoring fan was furiously defending the Grand Champion, cursing Edward at least as well as Edward cursed the valet.

The only party of the trio not screaming was Edward's valet, who was making efforts to silence them both. "Please!" he implored. "The Guard will come arrest us all for this racket!"

Edward shouted something at him, and then turned his attention to the fan. "_You_ can take a flying leap of the White Gold Tower," he yelled, his face a shade of deep crimson rage. "I'll talk to my servant anyway I please, you disgusting elf. Go get a haircut, why don't you?"

Even as the fan launched into a furious tirade at this remark, the valet – earning his title, Dragonheart, yet again for his courage in doing so – attempted once more to intervene.

"Sir, please," he spoke, "I'm sorry. Please, just let it go!"

Edward was too engaged in his war of words with the Bosmer youth, however, to take note. He was screaming breathlessly, spittle flying from his mouth in a rather deranged fashion, as he exchanged profanities and threats of every sort with the yellow-haired elf.

Touching both men on the shoulder to draw their attention, the valet again implored reason. "Please, let's just forget this whole unpleasant business!" he pleaded.

The fan, in a cringing, acquiescent manner, desisted immediately, and began to implore the Grand Champion that he might defend his honor; Edward, however, furiously slapped his servant's hand away, declaring, "Don't touch me, servant!"

This was too much for the fan, who began to shriek in a furious and affronted way, pointing at Edward as he did so, "Assault! Assault against the Grand Champion! This man struck the Grand Champion!"

A crowd quickly gathered as the little Bosmer continued screaming. The valet attempted to silence the fan, but the fan was too fervently engaged in defending his god's honor to listen to what his god actually had to say at the moment. "Assault! Assault against the Grand Champion!!"

Edward, furious at the fuss made over so simple a thing, began once more arguing with the Bosmer. "Assault?" he asked. "That wasn't assault! This would be assault!" He herewith slapped the valet, and hard. "Now there's assault for you!"

All at once a collective gasp rose from the crowd of onlookers, and a cacophony of mingled voices began to join the fan's. "Assault! He assaulted the Grand Champion!"

At that moment, a burly Imperial Guard pushed through the assembled crowd. "Who assaulted the Grand Champion?" he demanded furiously.

The crowd responded in unison, pointing at Edward. "He did!"

"Really, it was nothing!" the valet protested.

"Nevermind that, my Champion!" the Guard declared reverently. "I'll take care of it. You-" He pointed to Edward, and his tone took on an aspect of disgust and loathing. "Scum – you're under arrest. We'll see how much you like assaulting the Champion after some time in the Imperial Prison."

Edward turned open-mouthed to his servant. "Tell him to piss off!" he demanded.

But a strange look had lighted the valet's eye. "No…no indeed, I will not. The perfect place for you is prison!" A collective cheer rose from the crowd, and the Guard nodded in satisfaction as he surveyed the pleased faces about him. The valet, meanwhile, shot Edward a quick nod and wink, and mouthed "_Valen Dreth_!" to him.

Edward, however, saw none of this…his senses were too clouded by sheer rage for him to see straight, much less think straight. He lunged for his servants, his fists flying and his tongue lashing out. So great was his fury that it took half the crowd to actually pull him off of the Grand Champion before he was hauled off to prison.


	67. Chapter 67

Assault on the Grand Champion!

No sooner than had our mighty, beneficent Grand Champion won his title and exited the Arena, on the very day of his victory, a fiend of the lowest and vilest order attacked him. To his credit, Dragonheart did not do what so many – including the horde of eager fans who had surrounded him, and your own correspondent – wished had been done – beat the miscreant low-life to within an inch of his miserable life for daring to lay a hand on our esteemed Champion. Instead, he handed the vile attacker over to the Imperial Guard, who swiftly carried out justice against the ingrate – who is now rotting in a dungeon, where scum of his ilk belong. Long live our illustrious Champion, and despair of the worst sort to those would dare to lay a finger on our magnificent fighter!

-- Black Horse Courier, Special News Bulletin

Chapter Sixty-Seven

Edward screamed out a final barrage of the worst profanities he could think of as the heavy prison door scraped shut. Then he kicked his cell bars, wincing in agony as his foot impacted with the metal.

"Ohhhh, it's _you_ again," a high voice asked.

Edward glanced behind him, still wincing in pain. He started as he saw the speaker. It was the snotty Dunmer who'd been stationed across from him during his first incarceration, so long ago. It was Valen Dreth, the very man he'd come to kill.

"And I see you recognize me as well."

"Of course I recognize you," Edward snapped. "Which is just another reason that this is one of the worst days of my life!"

"Ohh, poor little Imperial," Valen laughed. "How's it feel to be thrown into prison by your own kinsmen? You're an embarrassment to them, you see…an embarrassment to the empire. And we know what happens to embarrassments to the empire, don't we?" He laughed again.

Edward glared at him. He had heard all of this tripe the first time he'd been in prison. "Damned gods!" he cursed. "Not bad enough to be betrayed by my own servant – slimy ingrate that he is...but now to be the cellmate of this tedious elven beast? How dare they do this to me?"

Valen clucked his tongue mockingly. "Now, now," he said, "if you're so annoyed with the gods, it might just be that you're praying to the wrong ones!"

Edward's glare intensified. "What do you mean, 'the wrong ones'?" he asked. "I've prayed to all of them! Talons, Macintosh, Julianna, Isabella, Maria, and…" he paused, frowning and counting mentally. "Well, all of them," he repeated.

Valen shook his head, more amused than anything else. "Yes, well, aside from the slight confusion as to their names-" Here he coughed significantly. " It's possible that 'Talons', 'Macintosh' and the rest just aren't the right gods for what you're praying for." Edward frowned at him, still not following. "Maybe you need to pray to a god…somewhat more diabolical."

Edward's expression lightened at this suggestion. "I say!" he exclaimed, suddenly considerably more cheerful, "that's a very good idea! I should be praying to…" Here, he paused and frowned. "…you know the fellow, the one with lots of arms, who, well, hates humans…Marooned Dragon?"

"Mehrunes Dagon?" Valen suggested, sighing.

"Yes, yes!" Edward exclaimed. "He's the one."

Valen shook his head imperceptibly, but only said, "Well, I would not pray to Mehrunes Dagon unless I was serious about…" Then he paused, and a slight smile toyed with the corners of his mouth. "But then, what do I know? He is a Daedric Prince known for his benevolence to all of his followers, even the less than committed ones who don't know how to pronounce his name."

Edward nodded excitedly. "Excellent!" he declared. "Now, how exactly does one go about becoming a follower of this Marooned Dragon fellow?"


	68. Chapter 68

There are many who serve the gods;  
Some for fame, some for fortune;  
Some for glory, and some for vengeance.  
But few indeed are they who serve with sincerity.  
-- _Of the Followers of the Gods_, Edition the Third

Chapter Sixty-Eight

Edward kneeled in front of a crescent of lit candles. The candles he'd acquired from Valen Dreth, whom he was currently disposed to think very well of. Dreth, it turned out, was in fact a worshipper of the Daedric prince of doom and despair, and was gladly giving him instruction in how to likewise become a follower.

Edward bowed low before the candles, chanting, "Oh great Prince, Marooned Dragon, hear my pleas, your humble slave awaits your favor. Let me serve you, oh Great One, that I may partake of your noble rewards."

Valen Dreth, unseen by Edward, was shaking his head at this prayer; but the Imperial kept with it, repeating his supplications over and over. Finally, though, he turned to Dreth. "It's not working!"

"What's not working?"

"Well, he hasn't answered!"

The elf raised an eyebrow. "Well, gods don't generally just answer us."

"Then how do we know they're doing what we want?"

"Well, we see the results of their handiwork in our lives."

Edward nodded. "So, then, I should experience great fortune soon?"

"Umm, yes, probably," Dreth answered. To a more perceptive person than Edward, it would have seemed that the Dunmer was just waiting this one out, simply for the amusement of seeing what would befall his cellmate. Edward, however, not being so perceptive, nodded gleefully, and set about chanting a new prayer.

"Oh great Prince," he prayed, prostrating himself before the flames, "please give me vengeance against my wayward servant! Please, let him suffer! Let him come to untold harm and agony and misery!"

Dreth shook his head, commenting under his breath, "Isn't it redundant to wish horrible suffering on someone who serves you?"

"Please, my mighty god, do for me what those disgusting, paltry gods would not. Let that servant suffer, please! Kill him for me – but not until after he has been made to pay for his insolence!"

Dreth cleared his throat. "Wow, you're really upset at this servant, aren't you?"

Edward's eyes flashed. "You have no idea what he's done to me!" he answered. "For months he has treated me with insolence and disdain. Then he tricked me into feeling sorry for him – him, a servant! – because he was going to die, and then he didn't even die! But worse yet, he had me arrested, and thrown into prison!"

Dreth's eyebrows rose at the telling, even as Edward's complexion darkened into a fearful mask of anger and loathing. "And for that you want him to die?"

"Not just die," Edward breathed maliciously, as if savoring the very thought, "but die _terribly_!"

Valen Dreth cleared his throat. "Yes, well, I _totally_ get that." Edward was about to return to his supplications, but the Dunmer, no doubt tiring of the sing-song repetition of his chanting, interrupted, "What is this servant's name, anyway?"

Edward frowned at this question. "Hmm…" he said, thinking hard. "I don't know, but I suppose he must have one. I never bothered to ask." He shrugged. "It doesn't really matter, what with him just being a servant and all."

Dreth shook his head, and Edward returned to chanting. Edward's prayers continued for several minutes, but then a door overhead scraped open.

"Quick!" Dreth instructed. "The guards are coming! Hide the candles!"

Edward, eager to comply as to not risk further enraging the guards – insulting them, their gods, the dead emperor, their mothers, daughters, sons, fathers, priests, and family pets seemed as far as he should go, to his mind – gathered the candles quickly. Not bothering to extinguish them, he threw them under Valen's bed, even as the tramping of armored feet grew nearer and nearer.

"You're supposed to put the candles out!" Valen whispered angrily. But neither man could move now, as the Guards were in sight, and would see them with their contraband if they moved for them.

"Who cares," Edward hissed back, "they'll just run out of air and extinguish themselves!"

Valen glared at Edward, but said nothing. The guards, meanwhile, marched slowly down the hall, apparently inspecting the cells. Edward attempted to appear nonchalant as the men passed his cell. He was just about to breathe a sigh of relief, when one guard paused, his nose twitching. "What's that?" he asked.

Valen and Edward exchanged worried glances. "What?" they asked.

The guard turned to them and seemed about to speak, but froze suddenly, a look of horror coming into his eyes. Edward stared back, puzzled, noticing with only fleeting interest the peculiar red hue of light that reflected on his armor. The guard, his eyes still transfixed on Edward's cell, tapped a fellow guard, who likewise turned.

The second guard's eyes bulged as the first's had, but he seemed to find his voice. "Fire!" he screamed. "Quick, get those two prisoners out of there before they burn to death!"

Edward glanced down the hall, thinking with a feeling of excitement how interesting this all was. Who was it, he wondered, that had a fire in their cell? And how? He frowned as he glanced down the hall, cursing his misfortune that he was not at a proper angle to see the flames from his cell. That, at least, would have made his day a little more interesting.

He noticed only vaguely that the guards seemed to be headed in the direction of his cell, and that Valen Dreth was tugging incessantly at his sleeve. "What is it?" he snapped, spinning about to face his cellmate. "Can't you see that I'm trying to find the…" He trailed off, a mask of fear covering his face. "Fire!!" he screamed, flailing his arms wildly. "Fire!!" Indeed it was, for the flames he sought were coming from his cell, and Valen's bed.


	69. Chapter 69

From a little fire,  
Big flames can grow.  
And from a fool's fire,  
Well, who can know?  
-- Song of Flame

Chapter Sixty-Nine

The guards had, rather brusquely, pulled Edward and Dreth out of their cells, and shoved them aside. "Quick!" one guard was calling, "Get buckets of water!" Another was hastening to comply. Edward glanced about wildly, trying hard to master the panic that flared in him at the sight of the raging flames.

"_There, on the table near the lanterns_!" His eyes spotted a bucket of water, and his senses seemed to calm. He could help, after all. "Here," he called, racing for the bucket. Lifting it, he raced back toward the flaming bed. "Stand aside!" he declared.

He heard Valen shout, "No!" but took no heed of him. The Dunmer, he thought, might be too frightened to take action, but he, Edward the Imperial, was not. The elf continued to shout, but Edward concentrated on his task.

So it was that he heard Valen shout, "It's not water – it's oil for the lamps!" But he didn't process the meaning of the words until after he'd chucked the bucket's contents onto the flames.

Gasping as the import of Dreth's warning sunk in, he paused. For a second, it seemed as if the bucket full of oil had managed to smother the flames. The next second, however, flames shot up anew, spreading across the floor and climbing the walls and ceiling – everywhere that Edward had splashed with oil.

Edward's horror turned into full blown panic, and he began screaming wildly in the face of the flames. He could feel the intense heat of the fire several feet away, but he was too panicked even to move from the spot. He could only scream and flail his arms about madly.

He felt a hand pull him away, and he heard voices shouting for the prisoners to be released; for the building to be cleared; and for more water to be brought, as quickly as legs could go. But he was too lost in unthinking, unreasoning fear to do anything beyond scream.

It was only when a hard slap impacted with his face did he rouse himself from the blind horror. All at once, he realized that he was no longer in his cell, but an oddly familiar underground passage of some sort. He paused in his screaming to glance about him.

Valen Dreth was at his side, glaring at him. "You moron!" he said, "Are you trying to get us caught?!"

Edward blinked at him, trying to piece together what had happened during the lapse of his reasoning. The last thing he could remember was throwing a large bucket of oil onto the fire in their cell. Now, here he was in the underground passages leading from the prison, where he and the Emperor had traversed so long ago. He gasped out loud. "That's it!" he said. "This is where we are, in the passage leading from that cell!"

Valen continued to glare at him. "Of course it is! Why do you think I dragged you down here? So we could escape!"

"Really?" Edward asked, somewhat taken aback. Here he had been sent to kill this elf, and he was helping him to escape.

"Yes. You know how to get out of here," Valen explained. "And I don't want to go exploring on my own."

"Oh, I see," Edward nodded. Not as kind of him, then…but they still got out, at least.

"I was able to pull you out without the guards noticing, since they were so busy putting the fire out and getting the other prisoners away before they burnt to death. Of course, your screaming like a little girl didn't help me any…"

Edward shifted in place, shrugging apologetically. "Well, sometimes I just…panic," he explained.

The elf's expression of disgust unchanged, he sighed but said, "Alright, let's gets going. You lead."

Edward swallowed hard. He could still remember the creepy, grabby, unwashed hands of the goblin creatures that infested these tunnels -- not to mention the assassins who seemed to materialize out of nothing. "Me?" he asked. "Are you sure you want me to lead?"

Valen glared at him again, demanding, "Yes! Now move!"

Sighing and shivering a bit, Edward gingerly stepped forward, peering into the scantily lit chambers and passages around him. They were, he reckoned, about half way through the tunnel...soon, they would reach the door that had been locked last time, and the underground, goblin-infested passage. "It's this way," he declared, pointing down the passage.

"Alright," Valen nodded. "Lead on."

Edward flinched, but -- truth to be told -- he was at least glad to have this elf with him as he traversed these lonely stone halls. "_It's a shame I'm going to have to kill him,_" Edward thought. _"He seems a nice enough chap to me._"


	70. Chapter 70

Goblins, goblins so sweet  
Goblins, we love goblin meat  
Goblins, goblins to eat  
Goblins, send us goblins we entreat.  
-- _Song of the Goblins_, popularized version of a favorite song of the inmates at Woodmeadow Lunatic Asylum

Chapter Seventy

Edward and his companion had traveled together in silence, each dreading an encounter with anything -- man or beast -- that might inhabit the desolate passages they traversed. At last, however, they reached the wooden door that had, on Edward's last passage, been locked.

Testing the handle, Edward groaned.

"What is it?" Valen whispered, glancing about. "What's the matter?"

"The door is locked," Edward explained.

"Locked?" Valen gasped. "Well, what now? Oh, wait! There's a passage, over there. You see?" He pointed to the earthy opening in the stone walls.

Edward frowned, but then an idea struck him. "Oh, _really_?" he asked, his tone expressing surprise. "Well, why don't we check it out?" Staying back just long enough so that the elf would unconsciously take the lead, Edward smiled to himself. The last time he'd gone through this terrible, stuffy underpass, it had been heavily infested with goblins. This time, at least, someone else would take point.

Meanwhile, just as Valen and Edward were stepping into the musty caverns underneath the Imperial Prison, the Grand Champion was telling his adoring fan, "Now, I'm very serious. I have to go see my friend in prison!"

To which the style-challenged elf protested, "But, Great Champion, surely he does not deserve to bask in the glow of your presence after his insolence?"

The valet sighed. Aside from the impracticality of attempting to make the little Bosmer understand, he couldn't reveal his actual motivations in having Edward sent to prison, as that would endanger his friend. So, unable to explain that he'd been facilitating a Dark Brotherhood execution, he had to make due with convincing the fan that Edward was, in fact, worthy of his assistance. So, on this pretext, he told the Bosmer that he'd forgiven his friend, and so was going to plead with the Guards for his release. He did not doubt that his clout would win Edward's freedom, just as it had earned him imprisonment; so, a quick talk with the guards, maybe signing a few autographs or so, and Edward would be free -- and after he had an opportunity to scope out the prison, locate Dreth, and maybe already dispose of him.

"Now," Dragonheart told his follower, "let's have no more of this talk. I'm going. And, if you want to come too, you have to be polite. Do you understand?"

The fan sighed deeply, but said, "Yes, my Champion, for you, anything -- even be nice to that...that...that fiend!"

Rolling his eyes, the valet continued toward the palace, hoping that the fan would soon -- very soon -- tire of trailing him.

At the same moment, Edward and Valen were creeping through a damp, musty crawlspace. "Shhh!" Edward hissed. "I think I heard something!"

Valen froze, and they listened for several minutes in silence. Yet no sounds came to their ears. "You must have imagined it," the elf told him.

"No," Edward told him. "I don't think so. I think it was one of the goblins."

"Goblins?" Valen asked, turning horrified eyes toward him.

Edward flinched. "_That's right_," he thought, "_I haven't told him about the goblins yet, have I?_" Aloud, he said, "Umm, yes, goblins...don't you remember me telling you how they infested these tunnels?"

Valen glared at him. "No!"

"Oh...well, I did," Edward assured him, most insincerely.

"You liar!" the elf charged.

Edward stared at him in affected shock at this effrontery. "How dare you!?" he demanded. "I never lie, elf!"

Valen stared daggers at him. "Just wait until we're out of here, Imperial!" he growled. "You'll pay!"

Edward rolled his eyes, and shook his head in a taunting, mock frightened manner. "Since we're on the topic,_ elf_, I've got a score to settle with you, too, once we're out of here."

"Good!" Valen sneered. "Now I'll have a chance to kick your -"

At that moment, both men froze as a pair of glowing yellow eyes peered into the darkness at them from the rear end of the tunnel. They turned at a peculiar angle, as if the head that contained them had pivoted in a quizzical manner. Then it cooed in a high, sinister manner. Both men began to scream in a hysterical, panicking way. Valen started kicking and scrambling to be free of the passage; being in the lead, however, his kicks ended up finding their way into Edward's face and torso.

Furiously, frantically, meanwhile, the Imperial was grabbing and pulling, likewise attempting to crawl out of the damp, dark pass; his efforts, however, did little but hamper his companion's ability to flee.


	71. Chapter 71

Hear the screams,  
Scream the alarm,  
Alarm the guards,  
Guard the Palace!  
-- Official Defense Plan for the Imperial City, as transcribed from the Royal Archives

Chapter Seventy-One

Dragonheart rounded a bend, his heart feeling very light. At last he was free of the houses that obscured the panorama of colors overhead, and so he would be able to see the sunset -- strangely early as it was -- casting its lovely reddish hue upon the city. Glancing upwards, however, the Imperial froze in horror. It was no sunset lighting the city in hues of red and orange. No indeed; it was a giant spire of flame encircling the lower portion of the White Gold Tower, and climbing higher and higher with every lick of the deadly orange flame tongues.

This -- the Imperial Palace in flames -- was bad enough; but it was worse since the Imperial Guards had commissioned the Bastion -- what had once housed the Imperial Prison -- for their own use, and had transferred the prison to the palace basement about a year earlier.

"My gods," he gasped. "I've sentenced him to death!"

"Oh dear," the adoring fan, almost silent for once, gasped. After a moment, he added, "At least, though, Great Champion, it started before you entered!"

The valet glared at him, a thousand terrors assailing his thoughts. What sort of evil fate had he subjected his friend to, all in his bumbling attempt to assist? Why, oh why, why, _why _had he not trusted to Edward's abilities to hunt Dreth without any interference or assistance from him? How could those fools of Guards let a fire like this start, when there were prisoners locked in the dungeons? And was it possible that they had rescued the prisoners?

Staring at the flames as they climbed, engulfing more and more of the palace tower with every moment, Dragonheart felt very sick. He had, he was sure, sentenced his friend to a terrible death; and now he was too late to do anything to help.

Of course, little did he know that, at that very minute, Edward and Valen Dreth were very much alive, and busily beating, kicking and screaming at one another in their attempts to each get out of their tunnel enclosure before the other. Finally, delivering a good, hard kick to Edward's face, Valen managed to break free of him. Edward, however, was hot on his heels as he fled, and scrambled out of the passage only seconds after the elf, careening into him as he leapt from the earthen shaft.

Both men tumbled into a heap at the mouth of the passage, and at once fell to striking each other in their frenzied attempts to get away. A gurgling goblin inquiry from within the tunnel roused them from their senseless endeavor long enough so that they could rise to their feet; and then they took off at breakneck speed, paying no heed to which direction they went, and knowing little except that there was an ever-increasing horde of vile creatures on their tails.

Eventually, screaming and fleeing as they were, Edward lost sight of Valen, and imagined that he must have taken some turn to another side. He honestly didn't care...he was far too worried about the host of furry, biting, hissing, screeching things on his tail to care about the elf -- even if it did mean muddling up his contract. Worse yet for him, though, was the realization that there was no band of Blades waiting at the end of the tunnel to destroy his pursuers. And, perhaps most alarming of all, was the fact that the tunnels were growing increasingly hotter. Was it possible, Edward wondered, that the palace itself had caught flame, and was heating these passages, like a giant clay oven? The thought sent a shiver down his sweating back, and he hurried his frenzied pace.

At last an aperture in the earthen basement opened up, spilling into the stone of the underground palace passes. Edward charged blindly forward, leaping joyfully from the clay oven, only to find with dismay that he'd entered a brick one. "Ye gods!" he gasped, tearing at his clothes and gasping for breath. "It's hot enough to cook something!"

This realization prompted another one, and -- despite toppling at the brink of a terrible death -- Edward was at once aware that all of his exertion had made him terribly hungry.


	72. Chapter 72

Terrors of the night,  
Fears of the ages,  
All of these are naught  
Compared to him.  
-- Song of Edward, Verse Six

Chapter Seventy-Two

From far and wide, people paused in alarm and dismay that bright afternoon. In horror their eyes turned to the Imperial City, and in horror they watched the iconic White Gold Tower grow red and orange, and seem to dance before them. Mountaineers in the Northern slopes, midland herders tending their flocks, outlaws vanished into the rocky dwellings of the Colovian Highlands, hermit dwellers of the Valus Mountains, boatmen and women in the harbor and upon the high seas, Blades atop their rocky summit of Cloud Ruler Temple, hunters in the Great Forest...all these saw, in horror and dismay, the flaming icon of the Imperial City, indeed, of the Empire itself, glow red and dance its doomed dance against the late afternoon sky. What tragedy, what disaster, what travesty could have brought the Palace to such an end? What cruel whim of the gods had it been to ignite the symbol of the Imperials, of Alessia and the slave-race who threw off the yoke of bondage to destroy their masters and establish themselves in their own right? Was it, the masses whispered in fear and alarm, the fulfillment of prophecy -- that the Dragonblood, once extinguished, had taken with it the greatness of the Empire? Did the burning of the White Gold Tower portend the wrath of the gods and the doom that awaited mankind, people wondered in growing terror?

Of course, little did these speculators realize just how wrong their frightened musings were, and just how far from the reality of the incident their wandering conjecture had strayed. Little did these troubled citizens realize that the burning of the Imperial Palace could not be attributed to any god, or to any stern fate dictated by the divines, but rather to a revengeful Imperial prisoner, whose disastrous supplications to the god of doom had led to a small but containable fire; and whose attempts at putting out that fire had escalated it into the burning inferno that they witnessed now, as it consumed the symbol of their nation's greatness. Little did they realize that, far from the grand and terrible images of powerful, vengeful gods that they conjured up, the actual cause of this disaster was at the moment himself frozen in terror, teetering over the edge of a newly opened fissure-like aperture.

And yet, it was so, for Edward, whose bungling had ignited the Imperial Palace, now stood in mortification, overlooking a rift in the Imperial Sewers, no doubt caused by the tremendous crashing and shifting of portions of the palace overhead. It was a steep drop, a good fifty or so feet from where he stood, into a pit -- he knew not how deep -- wherein the contents of the Imperial Sewers had drained. Overhead, the moving and creaking of stone forewarned of imminent danger; and behind him, the hissing, squeaking, gurgling, spitting fury of a mob of monsters bespoke even more immediate menace. And yet, for all this, Edward could not make himself plunge into that horrid, steaming -- literally, as it, like everything around it, had heated up due to the conflagration above -- pool of waste below him.

This decision, however, was not one he'd have to make for himself, as a screaming, panicked body, appearing suddenly onto the plateau from some side passage, careened into him, hurling both itself and Edward headlong into the pit below.

Terrified as he was, Edward's fury mastered his fear; and as he rose to the surface he was cursing angrily at whoever had been the fool who pushed him in. The fool, it turned out, was Valen Dreth, and he likewise was cursing.

"What the Oblivion did you push me in for??" Edward berated.

"Why in Oblivion did you abandon me??" Dreth demanded at the same time.

Each about to shout denunciations of the charges leveled at his door, and condemnation of the other man, both paused in shock and dismay as they saw two packs of rats, goblins, and other subterranean-dwelling creatures plunge headlong off the miniature cliff in pursuit of their prey -- them. The elf and Imperial screamed in unison, each making hastily for the edge of the pit. Their swim was a long and vile one, and the _plop_, _plop_, _plop_ behind them as their pursuers dove in did nothing to ease the disgusting nature of their business. At last, however, thoroughly soaked in the city's waste, they reached the edge of the chasm.

Hesitating not a moment, they scrambled out, noting with only fleeting satisfaction that the numbers of their pursuers had diminished significantly. They glanced about them hastily, but at last picked out a path that seemed crossable. "Here!" Edward shouted, pointing it out. "We should be able to climb over the rubble!"

Panting, wheezing, cursing and grunting, the two men made haste to do so -- and ignore the awful, nauseating smell of heated septic waste that adorned their bodies, or the ever-increasing temperature that heated the rocks beneath them and the air they breathed.

It was a long climb, and a hard one, but, at last, they reached the summit of the rubble, and were, with much difficulty, able to leap to the other side of the ruined sewer passages. These, at least -- as their passages had drained into the fissure from whence Edward and Valen had just escaped -- were clear of all but a clinging sludge, and a few angry crabs. The crabs -- doubtless because of the heat -- were slower than usual, however, so that even their anger aided them little in their efforts to attack the two fleeing men.

"Die!" Edward cursed as he passed a trio of _clack-clack-clacking_ crabs. "I hope you all bake in here, you bastards!"


	73. Chapter 73

Sings us a song of cowardice,  
And he knows the lyrics well.  
Sings us a song of malice,  
And he knows it as well.  
-- Song popularized after the end of the Oblivion Crisis

Chapter Seventy-Three

Valen Dreth and Edward crawled out of the same sewer grate that Edward had stepped out of what seemed like ages ago. They were still pursued by an ever diminishing band of creatures, but they were able to secure the grate in such a way that it would prove a daunting barrier to any creature lacking the intellect required to unfasten it. This done, they immediately dove into the cool water, both to soothe their overheated bodies and to remove the vile layer of waste that covered them.

As soon as he'd plunged under water enough times to wash as much filth as possible off of himself, Edward turned his attention to the City, where he was bound. Then, he gasped. "Oh my gods," he sputtered, indignation and rage filling him, "some fool has lit the Imperial Palace on fire!"

Valen glanced first at him, and then at the flaming spire rising high above the city. His expression changed from annoyance to shock to fury; Edward, however, took no note.

"Who would do such a thing?" the Imperial wondered aloud. "What sort of fiend?"

Valen Dreth stared at him, as if attempting to ascertain if he spoke facetiously or not; his angry, annoyed expression morphed into a darker, more annoyed one as he surveyed Edward, who still ranted furiously, bobbing up and down in the water with each proclamation.

"The White Gold Tower!" he was currently exclaiming. "The symbol of Aleyid power, and the symbol of the might of Imperials -- for it was we who took it from the race of filthy elves!"

Dreth shot him a dark look at this mention of elves, but he again took no notice.

"The arsonist should be strung up for this!" Edward roared, floundering to keep himself above water as he exhaled the air from his lungs. "This is treason, treason to the Empire! A slap in the face to history, to Imperials everywhere!"

Dreth stared at him icily, a mixture of amazement and disdain filling his eyes. "Don't you find it oddly coincidental," he asked, "that you lit a fire in the prison underneath the palace, and -- right after that -- some arsonist lit the palace on fire?"

Edward gasped. "You're right!" he exclaimed, pausing for a moment to pull himself up out of the water. "That's a good point! It _must _have been one of the guards!"

Valen stared at him, too surprised by this conclusion to respond.

"They must have known about the fire in the dungeon, and took the opportunity, when everyone was distracted, to light the palace on fire!"

The elf grimaced at this wanton stupidity, but said only, "Come on, let's get to shore."

Edward didn't need to be told twice, and both men swam toward the Island city. The Imperial pulled himself out of the water wearily, collapsing heavily onto the sandy shore. "It's amazing, Dreth," he told the elf, "that we made it out of there! We actually make a pretty good team, you know that?" He didn't see the Dunmer's malicious smile, so he continued, "You know – you won't believe it – but I had come to the city expressly to kill you. But I'm not going to do that now. Vicente be hanged…I could never hurt a pal who helped me escape from prison and saved my life!"

Valen Dreth sneered, and asked, "You, going to kill me? There's a laugh."

Edward glanced up annoyed, but froze suddenly. The elf was toying with a dagger, a dark look in his eye.

"You know," he told the Imperial, "I didn't get you out of there for your sake. I told you so from the beginning. But now that we're out…well, there's only one person in the world beside me who knows about it." He smiled, fixing his eyes on Edward's. "I can't have that, now can I?"

Edward gaped at the insolence of the man. "You mean…you want to kill _me_? After I decided to spare your life and everything?"

"'Fraid so," Valen answered matter-of-factly. "I don't need any witnesses to our escape. So, you see, you're putting me in rather a difficult position."

Edward, however, had heard enough at this point; if the elf's toying maliciously with his dagger hadn't convinced him of the sincerity of his words, the cold, calculating gleam in his eye did. Scrambling to his feet, loosing a yelp of fear, Edward sprinted for the cliff face. Even the protests of his weary legs did nothing to slow him. Soon he was climbing the rock face, and could hear the elf at his heels.

"Begone, murderer!" Edward shouted back, desperately clinging and inching higher. "Leave me be!"

He heard Valen laugh behind him, and then felt a cold, clammy hand wrap around his ankle. "C'mon now," the elf told him, his tone harsh yet almost musical in its cruelty. "You may as well make this easy on yourself." He tugged downward, hard, on Edward's leg.

The Imperial was shrieking with fright at this point, and kicking wildly with his unfettered leg. "Let go!" he screamed. "Let go of me!"

He heard Valen laugh, and felt the long, cold fingers of the elf's free hand brush with his other leg. Flailing it about more violently, he was glad when his heel impacted sharply with the Dunmer's grasping hand. "Let go!" he repeated, still kicking. He was too frightened to look down, and it was difficult enough to remain in place while Valen pulled on his one leg, and he kicked with the other, without trying to pull himself higher.

But he heard the growl of the elf as his kick found its mark, and he heard him say, "Alright, enough games Imperial twit. Time to die."

This sent Edward into a new frenzy, and he was all at once screeching as he'd never screeched, and kicking like he'd never kicked. He felt his heels impact with the Dumner several times, and felt the hand on his leg slip away, but he still hadn't had the courage to look down. Instead, he continued to flail with his lower body, and cling onto the rock cliff face with his upper.


	74. Chapter 74

Fire reaching to the sky,  
A thousand voices asking why,  
And one elf to die  
Just another adventure gone awry.  
-- Song of Edward, Verse Seven

Chapter Seventy-Four

Still shrieking and flailing about several minutes later, Edward felt his arms giving out. "Please!" he was pleading. "Please don't kill me! I swear, I'll never tell anyone! Oh please, Dreth, don't hurt me! We serve the same god! We escaped together! I helped you get out! Please, don't kill me!"

The elf, apparently, had no intention of acquiescing, for he made no response; but, even as terrified as he was, Edward was still unable to hold on any longer. Knowing that the fall would mean his death, Edward felt tears streaming down his face as his last vestiges of strength gave out. The next thing he knew, he had fallen, and was covering his head and face with his hands. He felt himself land on something flesh-like and warm, and knew at once that he'd landed on the elf -- who was, he was sure, about to murder him.

"Please!" he screamed out desperately, "Please don't!"

He didn't really expect mercy, but he thought he may as well try as not. But, to his surprise, his entreaty was met with absolute silence. "Valen?" he asked raising his head a bit. Opening one eye just a sliver, he asked, "Valen Dreth?"

The elf was there, all right, but not as Edward had expected. Rather than towering over him ready to strike, the elf lay sprawled out on the shore. The fleshy object he'd felt had been Valen's leg, on which he'd landed. Shrieking anew, Edward jumped up and backwards. The Dunmer was, somehow, lifeless and unmoving. "_Is he...can he be...dead?_" Edward wondered, terror still toying with him. But he had to know, and so he leaned over the elf.

Gasping, Edward noted with both glee and surprise the trickle of blood running from Valen's head onto the rock on which he lay, and down into the sand of the shore. Had he fallen, Edward wondered, or had one of those kicks pushed him backwards? So lost in panic as the Imperial had been, he'd not even heard a thud or fall...and yet, now, Valen Dreth was dead, his head apparently smashed on the cliff walls of the City Isle.

Edward's eyes bulged in appreciation and joy. "Oh, great Marooned Dragon!" he prayed out loud. "Thank you, thank you, thank you for saving your humble slave from the grasp of this madman! Thank you! Only one of your greatness could recognize the caliber of your loyal slave! Only one of your grandeur could appreciate my value to you!"

Meanwhile, Edward's valet was frantically trying to find word of his cremated master, as he thought Edward must surely be. He'd learnt that the prisoners had been rescued, as had all the inhabitants of the castle and many of the books in the Elder Scrolls Library. Even the Moth Priests had been rescued before the inferno spread to their chambers. But, amidst all the rescued, he could find no trace of Edward.

"Look here," he was telling one of the guards, "you must have some idea of him, and what's happened! I need to know!"

The guard, covered in soot and looking less than pleased, snapped back, "I told you already, I can't find him in the records!"

"Why not?" the valet asked. "He must have been registered, since he was taken right here."

"Maybe he was, and maybe he wasn't," the Guard answered. "But I still can't find no mention of him in the records.

"Why?" Dragonheart demanded to know.

"Because the records is burnt," the Guard answered, guffawing at his own joke. "And you can't find something as is burnt, can you now?"


	75. Chapter 75

The virtuous seek out the Nine,  
But Mehrunes Dagon the swine.  
While the Nine seek out the pure,  
But the villains Dagon loves for sure.  
-- Sundas School lesson

Chapter Seventy-Five

Edward had finished scaling the nearly sheer cliff face and was standing outside the walls of the Imperial City. He was hot, tired, and very weary; and his mood was little better than his physical condition. He had just recovered his breath, and was heading toward the nearest gate, when a hand tapped his shoulder.

Jumping in alarm and spinning about, mad images in mind of the furious shade of Valen Dreth pursuing him, he was surprised to see only a red-robed and hooded figure. He stared quizzically at the man before him, whose face was difficult to make out, so hidden underneath his hood as it was. And then his eyes bulged anew, and he felt a scream of panic rising in his throat. This was one of those men, those assassins, who had pursued the Emperor and him during his first escape from the Imperial Prison!

But the robed figure spoke before he could commence screeching. "My dear Edward!" he said, "I am sent to you by our dark Lord and Master, Mehrunes Dagon himself."

Edward paused, the urge to scream momentarily put on hold. "You? What connection are you to my god?"

A smile was visible underneath the hood, and then the lips parted. "Why, I am an agent of the Mythic Dawn, whose mission it is to serve our glorious master."

Edward frowned at him. "Wait, you guys serve the Dragon too?"

"The Dragon?" the agent hissed. "No, we serve Mehrunes Dagon, not Akatosh!"

Edward frowned in confusion at him.

"And our god has heard your pleas, and seen what you have done for us!"

"Oh," Edward declared, his expression brightening a little. He wasn't sure what, exactly, he'd done, but the fact that it pleased a god sounded good enough to him. "I see."

"Indeed. We would like to welcome you into our ranks on behalf of our god, if you would be willing to join?"

Edward positively beamed. "I'd be delighted!" To himself, he thought, "_How exciting! Joining a cult of assassins at the invitation of a god himself! Finally, I am getting the recognition I deserve!_"

"Excellent! Well, then, initiate, after your glorious work of destruction, we have a task that will seem trivial by comparison. And yet, we hope it may be sufficient to excite your interest, so that you will lend your manifold skills to our endeavors?"

"Of course!" Edward agreed hastily. Whatever it was, he was glad to do it. After all, this god and his followers were the only ones who really, truly valued him for what he was.

"Wonderful," the robed figure smiled. "Now then, it's a simple task really. We need you to discover the identity of the Emperor's last son, hunt him down, and kill him."

Edward blinked. "What?" he asked, astonishment filling his eyes. "You want me to kill him?"

The robed man nodded. "Yes. Our Lord has faith in you."

Edward's eyes gleamed with sheer pleasure. It was one thing to be sent by a mere band of assassins to kill people; it was another indeed to be hand picked by a god to kill the Emperor's son and heir! "I'll do it!" he exclaimed eagerly.

"Good," the Mythic Dawn agent nodded. "Our god will be proud of you!" Edward's smile grew to positively titan proportions. "And, once it is done, we will have another task for you."

"Oh?"

"Yes...the Amulet of Kings had disappeared. We need it."

Edward shifted uneasily. "The Amulet of Kings?"

"Yes...rumor has it that some damned fool picked it up after our Brethren slew the Emperor, and we've not been able to locate it since."

"Ahh," Edward answered. "Well, I, umm, might be able to help in that regard."

"Oh?"

"Yes...I've, umm, heard rumors that, uhh, Friar Jauffre has it."

"Oh?" the Mythic Dawn agent repeated, staring out from under his hood at Edward. "I suppose we should have thought of that...but we trailed that swine Baurus, and he didn't have it..."

"Yes, well, rumors are only rumors," Edward declared. "Still, I'd check it out if I were you." To himself, he thought, "_Blast! If only I had known beforehand, I might have saved them the trouble!_" But he didn't dare reveal his part in this masquerade, for fear that his shifting loyalties would reflect poorly on him to this agent of his god.


	76. Chapter 76

The pure of heart  
Stands by his friend  
Ignoring the faults,  
Standing firm to the end.  
-- _On Friendship_

Chapter Seventy-Six

Edward, now an initiate into the Mythic Dawn, strolled into the city with a glad heart. Sure, he still reeked of sewerage; and, yes, someone in whom he'd placed his faith -- Valen Dreth -- had betrayed him and tried to murder him; and, true, his valet sent him to prison; likewise, the burning White Gold Tower rose above the city like a giant flaming specter. But things were finally looking up for him, at least on a personal level. The gods -- "_Curse all of them, except, of course, the One, True Being, Marooned Dragon_" -- had spent years ignoring him and spitting upon him; now, at long last, they were recognizing him for what he was, and what he could offer them. And soon, so soon as he'd completed his task of assassinating the Emperor's heir...well, what rewards could he expect from a god, after all? There were no limits for gods...they could reward the faithful as they saw fit. And surely one of his character would be deserving of ample rewards, wouldn't he?

Frowning as he realized he'd broken into that habit of old of licking his lips greedily at the prospect of wealth or fortune, Edward straightened himself out, and strolled nonchalantly through the town. He didn't even take it personally when people pulled quickly away, wrinkling their noses and staring at him with disdain. He was too lost of scheming reverie to take much note. "_Maybe_," he was thinking, "_my god will make _me_ Emperor! After all, with all the unworthy heirs dead, and the last of the ingrates dead at my hands no less, the mighty Dragon might see that there are none better suited to rule than myself._" He was smiling broadly at the prospect, and walking a bit aimlessly, as he wasn't really sure of where he was going or why. He had a vague idea of retrieving his horse from the stables, but was afraid that, if he should pay a personal visit to Snak gra-Bura's stables, she might recognize him. Yet, as much as he despised the beast, he couldn't warm to the idea of traveling on foot. And, with his wayward servant at last cast off like the vile ingrate that he was, he really had no choice but to fetch the horse himself, or to abandon it.

It was then that an annoying voice broke through his thoughts, and he felt his ears practically itching with aggravation. "Don't take it to heart, Champion," it was saying, "it's sad and all that for sure, but he really is unworthy of your concern!"

Edward froze. Was this...could it be? Were the annoying fan and the miscreant servant approaching? His first instinct was to run, as his servant would no doubt try to have him incarcerated again; but the prevailing sensation was to murder the fiend on sight. So, he remained fixed in place, listening as the voice continued to implore its "Champion" to move on and forget the deceased unworthy. There was now no doubt in his mind...in all of Tamriel, he was sure that only the Ice-Cream-Head could babble so incessantly, repeating the same, oftentimes meaningless, things over and over in ever new and different ways.

Soon enough, the voice drawing nearer and nearer, first the taller form of his valet, and then the childlike form of his valet's stalker, rounded a corner, and froze. Edward watched as his servant's eyes grew wide in shock. Just about to engage in a bitter tirade about betting his servant was surprised to see him after his murder attempt, he froze a second time as the other man rushed over and clasped his hands on his shoulders.

"Sir!" he exclaimed. "Oh, sir! You're alive! Oh, thank the Nine! I was so afraid..."

"That you'd murdered me?" Edward spit out, ignoring the look of relief and joy that spread across the other man's face.

"No sir," the valet answered. "That you'd died in that fire! I'm so sorry that I interfered. I thought I'd give you a shot at Valen, and I almost got you killed!"

Edward stared at his valet, who was positively shaking with both remorse and joy, his face a strange, contorted mask of the two. Something in the other man's relieved expression, and the fact that he didn't recoil in disgust though he was grasping reeking clothes, stayed the flow of bitter fury that was about to roll off of Edward's tongue. "What?" he asked.

"My plan -- to get you in with Dreth by having you hauled off to prison!" Dragonheart continued. "Some fool started the palace on fire, and you almost got killed!"

Edward glared at him furiously, but the words somehow penetrated his barrier or livid unreasonableness. "You mean...that was all a stupid ploy to get me access to Dreth?"

"Of course," the valet nodded. "I never imagined anything like that could happen, though!"

"You almost got me killed!" Edward roared, understanding simply giving way to a new facet of fury. "How dare you meddle with my work?!"


	77. Chapter 77

Dear Divines,

My name is Edward, and I'm an Imperial living in the Imperial City. I am writing to you this holiday season because I have a request -- two of them, in fact -- and the priest at the temple said that you might answer them if they were good requests. So, you'll have to take my word on it that these are good requests, because they really are. First of all, please smite my brother. He annoys me. Secondly, could you make me Emperor when I grow up? I hope that's not too much to ask, but I can't think of anything else that would make a fitting present for myself.

Yours in subservience and all that,

Edward

-- Childhood letter written to the gods during the winter holiday season

Chapter Seventy-Seven

It seemed to the Imperial that it was a decent trade off...forgiving his servant of lesser crimes than he had originally thought in order to secure his continued service. And, anyway, it appeared that the valet had already subjected himself to sufficient torture by beating himself up mentally for having Edward arrested. The miscreant, apologetic servant once more welcomed into the master's fold, then, Edward wasted no time in giving orders. First, the valet had fetched him new clothes -- at his own expense, of course, seeing as how Edward's "money was all confiscated by those tin-suited baboons!"; this was nonsense, of course, as Edward had had no money, but his servant had not argued. Then, he'd gone to fetch their horses. Edward and the Adoring Fan were waiting outside the city gates when he returned.

"Well now, sir," the valet greeted, "Snak gra-Bura was most obliging. She was glad to see someone was treating this old nag so well."

Edward grimaced. "_I need to pray for a better horse_," he reminded himself. "_It's a disgrace when the god's hand picked assassin is riding around on a horse that has no respect for him!_"

"Are you sure," the fan broke in at the sight of his beloved Champion, "that I must wait here for you, Oh Great and Glorious Champion?"

"I'm afraid so," the valet nodded. "My friend and I have important, dangerous work, and we cannot endanger you with it."

"Oh, but, Mighty Champion, I would risk any harm to be near you!"

Edward grimaced, but his servant was quick to silence the fan. "No, no," he said. "You must stay here. That's the wish of your Champion, and you know you cannot violate it."

Assuming a crestfallen air, the little elf nodded. "Yes, my Champion, I will obey. But you will come back, won't you? You're not just lying to me like that other Champion?"

Here, the valet hesitated; but Edward had no compunction in piping up, "Of course he'll be back! Would your Grand Champion abandon you?" He didn't mean a word of it, and knew well enough that his servant didn't either...but, as far as he was concerned, he'd do whatever it took to lose the little blighter -- up to and including bloody murder, if necessary. For now, though, he was content to confine himself to non-violent means...particularly when the eyes of the Guard were so near at hand.

The little fellow's face brightened, and he pressed, "You promise, my Champion?"

The valet hesitated more visibly this time, but again Edward interjected, "Certainly he promises! The Grand Champion is as good as his word, after all!"

Though Dragonheart frowned, the elf was positively beaming now. "Oh, Great Champion," he eulogized, "you are the greatest, the absolute greatest! Words fail me when it comes to expressing your beneficence, your grandeur, your magnificence!" And, despite professing that words had failed him, the fan set about finding ample expressions to convey, in a hundred ways and a thousand glowing tones, just how great were the depths of his adoration.

Edward was positively seething by time they were out of sight of the little fellow, and utterly livid when, some time later, they were out of the range of his vocal praise.

"I really wish you hadn't said that, sir," his valet told him then. "Now I'm obligated to find him when we return."

Edward stared at the other man, his mouth agape. Finally, he stuttered -- so great was his rage that his usual steady of flow of words had dissipated, "You wouldn't dare, you...you...you accursed servant!"

Dragonheart turned surprised eyes to him at this tone, but replied, "Well, sir, you gave my word. And, as you know, I can't break my word."


	78. Chapter 78

Conflagration at the Palace! Destruction of the White Gold Tower !

It is with dismay and consternation of the deepest sort that your correspondent puts pen to paper to write that, at the hands of scheming arsonist, the White Gold Tower is no more. Reportedly started by a prisoner underneath the palace, a blazing inferno swept upwards, igniting everything in its path. The charred ruins of the tower are all that remains, and will, it is rumored, need to be taken down, as they present a considerable safety hazard. This is indeed a dark day for the Empire, and for all who have come to depend on the might, glory and righteous guidance that it provides.  
--Black Horse Courier, Special news Bulletin

Chapter Seventy-Eight

All the while vowing that he would unceremoniously disembowel his servant if he ever thought -- so much as _thought_ -- about seeking out his annoying elvish stalker, Edward and his valet made their way to Cheydinhal. Edward's thoughts were that he needed cash, first and foremost to buy a respectable horse; and then for whatever necessity popped up in his hunt for the Emperor's long-lost heir. Somewhere in the back of his mind, though not acknowledged by him, of course, was the fact that our wayward hero had no idea whatever of how to go about seeking out and exterminating the Emperor's son. Neither Friar Jauffre nor the Mythic Dawn agent had given him much to go on. A former monk wasn't a terrific lead, after all.

So, he figured, he'd finish up his business with the Dark Brotherhood, and then...well, he'd see where his path took him from there. Things had a way of falling into his lap, so, at present, it seemed the best course of action to hope that some information would come his way, so that he could get on with the business of murdering his emperor. "_Marooned Dragon will understand, I'm sure_," he thought. "_These things take time and all that._"

Of course, he could relate none of the true nature of his task to his foolhardy servant. "_The moron will probably go off the deep end,_" Edward mused, "_ranting about honor and duty to the emperor and all that rot._" More than rants, however, the Imperial dreaded interference; he doubted very much -- though he'd be the last to admit it aloud -- that he could best his servant in a contest of arms, and so it seemed the far wiser course to avoid such a contest if he was to see to his business.

The other man's voice roused him from his reverie. "I'm actually surprised that you wanted to head out so quickly, sir," it was saying. "I would have thought you would have wanted to stay around to find the fiendish arson who destroyed the Palace."

Edward scowled at the mere thought of the blaggard who would torch the Imperial Palace, the symbol of the might of Imperials. "I would," he admitted, "except that I have such urgent business to attend." To himself, he thought, "_I suppose working for a god does trump even an insult of that magnitude._" It was one thing, to Edward's mind, to kill the emperor; the emperor was just a man, and any man -- him, for instance -- would be as good a ruler as the next. But the White Gold Tower? That symbolized everything that was great and glorious about the Empire and Imperials, from their conquest of the Aleyids up until the present day. The destruction of that symbol had been not just a slap in the face to the emperor, but to the Empire and every Imperial -- Edward included. It was personal to him, and he could picture a slinking, unwashed barbarian -- sometimes an elf, sometimes a Khajiit, sometimes a Nord, sometimes an Argonian...it didn't really matter which -- skulking about the palace, lighting the fires that had turned into the all-consuming conflagration he'd witnessed.

"Urgent, sir?" the valet asked, his brow wrinkling. "I thought you were just reconvening with the Dark Brotherhood?"

"Umm, yes," Edward stammered, "That's true, but, I, ahh, also, umm..."

"Ohhhh..." the valet nodded, a knowing gleam in his eye. "Another secret mission?"

Edward flushed, but nodded. "That's right."

"Then Friar Jauffre _didn't_ send you away without a task?"

Edward blinked. "Jauffre?" he repeated, suddenly feeling very guilty. He had, after all, practically sentenced the old man to his death, hadn't he?

"I knew it!" the valet continued obliviously. "He may be a grumpy old coot, but he's not foolish enough to let the man who retrieved the Amulet of Kings -- who was charged by the Emperor himself with returning it! -- slip through his fingers without roping him into service!" He was beaming proudly now. "You are an asset to the Empire, sir!" he told Edward. "A real asset. I mean, your Dark Brotherhood service was noteworthy enough, but this! Retrieving the Amulet of Kings, and now..." His eyes bulged. "Finding the heir!" he exclaimed, interrupting his own speech. "That's it, isn't it?"

Edward started. It was bad enough to have his fanciful servant imagining him on the side of the Emperor and working with Jauffre...but this?

Dragonheart beamed at Edward's reaction. "Ahh, I knew it!" he repeated. "I must say, sir, I am proud -- proud! -- to be working with you, and for our Empire!"

Edward nodded guiltily, the faintest twinge of remorse toying with his heart. It was too late to turn back from his chosen quest, however...and, right or wrong, it still held true that a god had more power of reward than a mere mortal Emperor. Thus, he was not too sorry for his alliance.


	79. Chapter 79

The palace has fallen,  
Gutted by a little fire  
The Imperials are bawlin'  
At the work of a liar.

-- Lyrics penned by Mankar Cameron

Chapter Seventy-Nine

The ride to Cheydinhal had been uneventful, and -- so far at least -- nothing had dropped into Edward's lap as he'd been hoping. He was not yet bereft of hope, however, and so he swaggered with a new-found ease into the Dark Brotherhood headquarters. None of the paltry peasants with whom he was about to associate, he knew, were working at the direct mandate of a god; even if Sithis and the Night Mother existed, these people were the nobodies at the end of their long chain of command -- where as he was the servant and ambassador of the great Marooned Dragon. These thoughts so impressed upon his mind, he carried himself with an even greater air of arrogant superiority than before. All eyes turned as he passed, and doubtless a number of stomachs proportional to the ratio of eyes-to-stomachs present.

Vicente was standing in the main chamber as he entered, and turned to stare daggers at him. "Edward!" he barked.

His fierce tone jarred the Imperial's stony insolence, but not as much as the fact that, for the first time since their acquaintance, the Breton had used his actual name in addressing him. Edward suddenly felt very meek as he stared into the furious red eyes, managing, "Yes, Mr. Valtieri?"

"So you're back?"

"Ummm...yes?"

The Breton glared at him. "Is that an answer, or a question?"

"An...answer?" Edward stuttered, realizing too late that his answer regarding his answer to a perfectly obvious question was posed so timidly that it, too, sounded like a question.

Vicente's icy glare seemed to freeze the very marrow in his bones. "Do you have any idea what you've done, Imperial fool?"

"Umm...no?"

"Are you answering me, or asking me?" Vicente demanded, his tone powerful and fierce even as his eyes burned a furious red.

"Answering!" Edward shouted, taking care not to repeat his previous slip up.

"You've just committed an act of treason, of war in fact, against the Empire! And did so as an agent of the Dark Brotherhood!"

Edward felt the blood draining from his cheeks, and imagined that he must look paler than Vicente himself. "Ye gods!" he thought. "How could he possibly know?"

The Breton apparently took this guilty reaction as acknowledgment of his crime, so he continued. "After what you've done, if there was anything -- anything! -- that I could get you on, by the gods, I'd do it!" he snapped. "Unfortunately, as the only person you actually killed was Dreth -- your mark -- I can't find anything..."

His eyes were blazing with fury, and Edward felt himself quaking. "I understand you don't approve," he managed in a half-whispered tremor, "but I thought..."

"Thought?!" Vicente demanded, interrupted. "How could you possibly justify that?!"

Edward shrugged, realizing that it was likely better not to elucidate his rationalizing. "Well, at least I didn't actually kill him," he explained. It made no never-mind to him that he still planned to; just so long as the Breton's fury was redirected long enough for him to make his getaway...

Vicente blinked at this defense, demanding, "Kill him? Kill who?"

"The Emperor," Edward explained. "Well, the heir to the throne."

Vicente's eyes opened wide. "What in blazes are you talking about?" he demanded.

The blood drained from Edward's face a second time. Was it possible, he wondered, that Vicente was speaking of some other transgression, and not his plot to murder the Emperor? But what? Certainly he had committed his share of misdemeanors and crimes in his day, but few -- except for his plot to kill the Emperor -- amounted to treason. "Well," he thought, "maybe stealing the Amulet of Kings could be construed as such...but could he possibly know about that?"

"Well?" Vicente prompted.

Edward seemed to shrink with every word the Breton spoke, and he wanted this interview to be over with as soon as possible. He was, to put it bluntly, scared nigh unto death. "I...I have no idea," he lied. "I just...what are you talking about?"

"Your stunt in the Imperial City!" Vicente roared.

Edward blinked in surprise. "Is that all?" he wondered to himself. Aloud, he said, "Look, I'm really sorry about that, but the provocation was too great...and, anyway, its not like it's a big deal." Vicente's pallor seemed to redouble for instant, and then the Breton flushed red with fury. "I mean," Edward hurried to explain, "that's what I thought then...but now I see how, umm, wrong I was."

"Gods know," Vicente muttered under his breath, "if there was even the faintest technicality, I'd make short work of you..." His tone reaching a more audible tone, however, he said, "But you completed your contract, and broke none of the tenets. So I've no choice but to give you the pay you were promised."

Edward took the bag of gold he was offered, but frowned. "Don't I get...like a bonus or something?" he asked. If it was true that he hadn't broken any rules, then it only seemed fair that he be rewarded accordingly. Vicente Valtieri's eyes flamed a shade of red that might well have come from the deepest reaches of Oblivion, and Edward at once fell to trembling. "Just kidding!" he yelped hurriedly.

"Let me make something clear to you," the Breton growled, "if you ever, ever do something like that again -- rules or no rules -- I'll personally drain you of the last drop of your blood, you worthless maggot!"

Edward blinked at the sheer fury the other man displayed. This really was too extreme, he thought -- but wisely kept to himself -- for something as simple as slapping the Grand Champion about a bit. Aloud, however, he said, "Yes sir. Now, as far as a new contract?"

"You'll be dealing with Ocheeva from here on out," he returned through clenched teeth. "I'd just as soon make a meal of you as not, but she says I can't...still, I'll have nothing further to do with you."


	80. Chapter 80

Knowledge is crucial to man's success

Without it, he is ignorant.

But wisdom is more important yet

For without it, he is a fool.

– An excerpt from a piece translated in the scholarly work "_Writings of Old, Dead People_"

Chapter Eighty

A very depressed Edward slunk out of the Dark Brotherhood shortly after his meeting with Vicente. His conference with Ocheeva had gone little better than that with the Breton, although, at least, the Argonian didn't threaten to eat him. She had brusquely told him that his "reprehensible behavior" had put him in a bad spot with the Brotherhood, and -- should it ever happen again -- something "unpleasant" was sure to befall him. That said, she had given him his next contract, noting that he had officially been one mission away from working with her full-time, but that his actions had disgusted Vicente so much that he refused to work further with him.

So, given the details of his latest assignment -- to fake a death -- he left quickly. He hadn't, he noted sadly, even seen Antionetta.

His valet was waiting patiently for him at their inn, and was surprised to see the glare with which he was greeted. To Edward, of course, that made perfect sense -- because, in his mind, he was being castigated for striking his servant, the Grand Champion, rather than burning down the White Gold Tower, which he was utterly unaware that he had done.

"Back already, sir?" the valet greeted, deciding it was best to ignore the ill-humors of his master. "I take it then you must have a new contract?" Edward merely growled at him. "Well then, are we going to be spending any time here, or are we setting out at once."

As much as he wanted to ignore his servant, this question gave Edward pause. The day was still young, and they had plenty of time to head out...but the thought of lazing about for a day or two was also an alluring one. "_But the Dragon's business cannot be delayed," he told himself. By which, of course, he meant Mehrune Dagon's business._ "Alright," he snapped, "we're heading out."

"Ahh, very good thing that I didn't rent us rooms yet," the valet observed. "I saw that the place was mostly deserted, so figured I'd wait..."

"And what in Oblivion makes you think I care?" Edward interrupted. "Do I tell you the details of my business? No! So what makes you think I want to hear the details of a servant's business? Just do your job, and shut up -- and we'll both be happier!"

The other man blinked at these venomous words, but, clearing his throat, returned quickly, "Yes sir. Of course sir. My apologies."

Edward glowered again. He hated that polite, up-tight attitude his servant took on when he was being...well, unreasonable. He said nothing, however, and the two trudged toward the city stables in silence.

At last, however, Dragonheart interrupted the gloomy quiet. "So, sir, where are we headed?"

"Chorrol," Edward snapped.

"Oh, very good!" the other man returned, his tone cheery. "So you decided to go there after all, sir?"

Edward snorted. "I didn't decide...that's where my next contract is. Plus, I have a few more questions for that stupid monk."

"Friar Jauffre, you mean, sir?"

"Yes, him."

"Ahh...you mean to aid you in your quest for..." Here, he glanced about and whispered in a conspiratorial tone, "the long lost heir?"

Edward glared at him. "Yes."

"How exciting!" the valet commented, apparently forgetting or ignoring the other man's glum mood. "I suppose, for starters, you'll want to know his name?"


	81. Chapter 81

Of Cyrodiil and Tamriel we sing

Of merchants, seafarers and a king,

Of thieves, cutthroats and criminal sorts

Of legionnaires and Blades in their forts.

– Excerpt from _Song of Tamriel_

Chapter Eighty-One

It was a bright, sunny day when the pair arrived in Chorrol. Edward's mood had, through the course of their travels, brightened a tad. He had even deigned to share with his valet the details of his task -- that from the Brotherhood, of course, and not that from his god.

He was, he'd told the other man, supposed to pretend to kill a fellow named Motierre. He'd even been given a knife for the task, which he showed to his companion. "They said it's covered in something that will cause a sort of paralysis that resembles death," Edward explained. "So I stab him with this in front of the other assassin -- who is really planning to kill him -- and it looks like he dies. And he acts like he's really afraid of me. Then, once he's been put in the crypt and everyone thinks he's dead, I use this-" Here, he produced a vial of liquid. "Which is a counteractant that will revive him."

The valet frowned. "But why this charade, sir?"

"Because, it turns out this Motierre fellow was an underground criminal, but, for the right price, he turned, and has since been working with the Imperial Guard as an informant against some rather sinister characters. Now they want him dead. So I pretend to kill him in front of the assassin they've hired, and he thinks he's dead. Everyone thinks he's dead. They just assume I was an assassin hired by someone else he'd informed on -- and, because he's acted afraid of me, the other assassin reports this to his employers. And then _Motierre_ picks up his life somewhere else. You see?"

"I say, that's very clever," the valet agreed. "And, I suppose a bit risky for you, eh? I mean, if that other assassin figures out that you're a fake...or if he wants vengeance since he thinks you took out his mark?"

Edward shifted uncomfortably in his saddle. He hadn't really thought about it like that before. "Well," he replied hesitantly, "I suppose that could happen."

The valet nodded. "Yes sir. Very brave of you to take on a fellow assassin!"

Edward's expression morphed into a glare. Somehow, his servant always had a way of annoying him. "_He must do it on purpose,_" Edward thought. "_That innocent nonchalance must be a pretext._"

"So, when are you going to do this?" Dragonheart continued.

"As soon as I can get over there," Edward answered. "The Brotherhood had caught wind of a hit placed on him two days before they gave me the assignment. Which means our assassin will be here anytime."

"And if he's watching the house?" the valet mused. "Won't he see you enter?"

"So?"

"Well, won't that weaken your story? I mean, especially if he waits awhile, and you wait to 'kill' him until the assassin arrives?"

Edward frowned. He didn't like to admit it, but there was some sense in the valet's words. "Hmm..." he said meditatively. "I suppose it might."

The two men walked in silent contemplation for a few minutes, each thinking of solutions to this poser. For his own part, Edward was lost. As it was, if he _waited _to enter, he'd need to find a quick, sure way to get into the house. What was he supposed to do, he wondered with a scoff...leave getting into the house to chance, and just hang around waiting for the bad guy to show up?

"I've got an idea!" the valet piped up suddenly, interrupting him from his unproductive reverie.

Edward groaned. "_Of course he's got an idea..._" It was bad enough that his servant could generally come up with a solution to any puzzle thrown their way...and it was worse that it was always a good one.

"Why don't I go to Motierre's house, tell him who I am and how I work for you and how you're working for the Brotherhood and all of that."

Edward rolled his eyes, contenting himself with criticizing the rambling structure of his servant's excited sentences in face of the inevitably good plan that he was about to put forth.

"Then," the valet continued, "he pretends to hire me as _his_ valet, and I start to work for him. This way, when the real assassin breaks in, I can defend him if necessary, and let you in to play your little charade."

Edward frowned. He was searching for some sort of loophole -- anything really -- with which to fault this plan. So far, however, his efforts were meeting with no success. "Well, what if...I mean, suppose..." He growled. "Alright, fine," he said through clenched teeth. "It sounds like a decent plan, I guess."


	82. Chapter 82

One must impress, but never overdo it;

Show interest, but never too much;

Make her laugh, show off your wit;

And if better than the truth, lie, but just enough.

– Rough draft of a dating guide, penned by Edward

Chapter Eighty-Two

Edward glanced out the window. It had been two days since his valet had gone into the 'employ' of Francois Motierre...two long, tedious days of getting himself up in the mornings, fetching and pressing his own clothes, ordering his own food, and, of course, paying for his own room. It was, in a way, amazing to him to realize how much he had come to rely on the services of his valet – the services, and, of course, the ready stream of cash, as the other man had long since ceased asking Edward for money of any sort, and had just made it a habit to pick up the tab or bill wherever they went. These, apparently, he had no difficulty paying, doubtless thanks to his secondary employment in the Thieves Guild.

For his own part, Edward had been staying at the Oak and Crosier inn, which was a nice enough establishment – and not terribly pricey, which suited the stingy Imperial very well indeed. Even the fact that it was run by a barbarian Khajiit hadn't bothered Edward too greatly, for Talasma – the publican – had greeted him with courtesy and remarked on his sophistication and breeding. "_I suppose I am a bit overwhelming, compared to the barbarians she must be used to_," he'd thought to himself at the time.

Of course, the reason he was at this particular inn was that it was directly across from Francois Motierre's home, so provided him with a terrific view of the comings and goings of the skittish little Breton. Having two days passed already, Edward had grown less assiduous in his task, going so far as to take long mid-afternoon naps, or grow engrossed in heated discussions and drunken debates with the locals – a "lot of primitive commoners," as he termed them. At the moment, however, he was engaged in shamelessly flirting with a Breton woman, Estelle Renoit.

"You know," he was telling her, "you'd almost pass for an Imperial."

"Oh, umm, thanks," she nodded, inching a bit further away from him on her stool.

"You don't have all of the features," he continued, "but you're still a lovely woman."

"Umm, thanks," she repeated, edging yet further away.

"And I just can't believe you're still single," he told her, repeating himself for at least the third time. "I guess it's just because in this little place there's no strong Imperial knight to sweep you off your feet?"

She groaned as he simpered.

"Well, don't you worry about that anymore," he continued.

Estelle continued her creeping escape, but, all at once, she yelped in surprise as her stool tilted precariously. Reaching out, she grabbed Edward. But it wasn't enough to stop her falling backwards; it just meant that he fell, too.

Too lost in planning his next comments, Edward was just as surprised as she, and went down like a ton of bricks. "Ye gods!" he yelped, falling painfully onto his companion's barstool. "Ouch. That stings." But, clenching his teeth, he tried hard not to show the pain he was feeling. He rightly suspected that crying wouldn't help him woo his lady-fair.

Rising, she turned to him furiously, and commanded, "Oh, get out of here!"

Still picking himself up, he blinked. "What?" he managed to ask, though it sounded as if he was being strangled in the attempt.

"Go away! I don't care if you think I look like an Imperial! I don't care if you're a knight! I don't care if the Emperor knighted you himself! I don't care how much land you own and how much your estates make a year," she answered, repeating the lies Edward had told her. "And I couldn't care less if you're single, either!"

"But...but..." the thunderstruck Imperial stammered. "Don't you...I mean, aren't you....?"

"Oh! Idiot!" she growled, brushing past him and storming out of the inn.

He watched her go, his face a picture of astonishment. He had used the best compliments he could think of, going so far as to say that she – Breton though she was – looked like an Imperial; he had told some of his best lies; he had, in essence, done everything right, and still the foolish woman scorned him.

"Excuse me," the gravely voice of a Khajiit interrupted his astonished reverie, "but please don't do that."

He glanced behind him to see Talasma. "What?" he asked.

"Drive the customers away by harassing them," she replied matter-of-factly. "It's not very good for business, you know."

He clenched his teeth, fighting back a furious remark. He was still staying here, after all, so he thought it better to hold off on insulting his hostess until he was leaving. "I wasn't harassing her!" he told her instead.

"Hmm..." the Khajiit muttered disbelievingly. "Well, whatever you call it, let's not have it happen again, shall we?"


	83. Chapter 83

It is said 'Never leave a child to his own devices'.

But we say 'Never leave a fool to his own devices'.

For see the harm he's inflicted when not left on his own?

What more if we'd left him to his own devices?

– Official clarification from the Nine, commenting on why they chose Edward to ward off the Oblivion Crisis

Chapter Eighty-Three

Edward sighed. He had stomped out of the Oak and Crosier Inn in a huff half an hour earlier, and was now seated on a bench by the tree known as "the great oak of Chorrol". His mood was dark, and his thoughts ran in the same vein. "_I am so sick of barbarians_," he was thinking to himself. "_If I was Emperor, I'd banish them all._" Then, glancing at the tree whose branches reached up overhead, he growled. "_And what a stupid idea....to build your entire town around a stupid tree. If I was the Countess...well, a Count...I would cut it down, and have a bonfire._" The idea of burning the symbol of Chorrol to ash cheered him a little, and he began to build up fanciful scenes in his mind of how this might be achieved. "_I suppose_," he was thinking, "_an arsonist might even get away with it...perhaps come by at night with some oil and a torch._"

He was positively grinning now – a broad, toothy, malicious grin – when a passing, patrolling Chorrol guard cleared his throat and asked, "Excuse me sir...everything alright?"

Edward flushed guiltily. "Of course!" he snapped. "I'm just sitting here...enjoying the sunlight."

"Ahh, yes...beautiful day, isn't it?" the guard answered.

"It could be," Edward returned, his mind still following the thoughts of a few seconds ago.

"Could be?"

"Uhh, is," he hastened to correct himself.

"Yes indeed," the guard nodded. "Well, you have a fine day then, sir."

Edward nodded and returned to his malicious reverie, when all at once he saw the door to Francois Motierre's home open. He bolted upright as his servant's head poked out, and then an arm gesturing for him to enter hastily.

Racing across the plaza, Edward nearly tripped over his own feet as he dashed into the building. His valet jumped back just in time to admit him, but another man – who he did not at first see – was not so fortunate. Edward careened into him, and both fell to the floor in a heap.

"Hey!" a lizard-like hiss exclaimed. "Who are you?"

Edward jumped to his feet to see a scaly Argonian – the individual with whom he'd collided.

"I am..." Suddenly, he paused. What cover story was he going to give? He and his valet had never really discussed that...just that he would pretend to kill Motierre in the other man's presence. So, he settled for the truth. "I am Edward, and I am an agent of the Dark Brotherhood. Go away – he's my victim."

The lizard sneered. "Ohh, Motierre, you _have_ been a naughty boy, haven't you? Oh well...as much as I'd love to see someone slit this treacherous filcher's belly open, I'm afraid I'm the one who has to do it, Imperial."

Edward cringed at the description of the death the Argonian had prescribed, but, mustering all his pomposity, declared, "I'm afraid you're not. I was sent here to do a job, and I shall do it."

"Look here, Imperial," the Argonian retorted, clearly annoyed, "Hides-His-Heart does not take to being trifled with. He's no disagreement with the Brotherhood, so go in peace and live."

Edward frowned at him. "What do I care for Hides-His-Heart? I'm talking to you!"

The Argonian grimaced. "I am Hides-His-Heart, fool."

Edward's frown deepened. "Don't refer to me as a fool, insignificant lizard. Now, go away before I skin you and make a pair of boots out of you. I've business with this cockroach!" With that, he spun around to face his valet and another man, who he recognized from his surveillance efforts as Francois Motierre. Drawing the poisoned dagger from a sheath in his belt, Edward sprang forward. The little Breton gasped as the knife plunged deep into his heart; and then he fell forward, quite dead.

Edward smiled triumphantly, and at the same time heard his servant and Hides-His-Heart gasp. Turning to face the Argonian, he said, "Now, have you anything else to say, lizard?"

Hides-His-Heart cringed, and replied quickly, "No, no, nothing at all. It will be enough for my employers to know that he is dead after his betrayal. As I said, Hides-His-Heart has no quarrel with the Brotherhood." Saying this, he quickly absented himself from the premises.

Edward grinned triumphantly. "_Well_," he thought, "_I taught that Argonian to mind his manners when addressing an Imperial, didn't I?_" Then, turning to his valet, he said, "That turned out rather well, don't you think?"

He was surprised to see the other man had grown ashen white.


	84. Chapter 84

Murder is the intentional slaying of another human being, wherein intent is matched by needlessness or maliciousness of the incident. Which is to say, it is murder for a man to kill another man without reason, or when the crime is not merited. Such an example might be killing a man during a quarrel. When one causes another's death, however, for other reasons – be they accidental, or merited – this is not considered murder. One might, for instance, be defending himself from attack, or warding off a tax collector, or something of that nature.

– Excerpt from _Treatise on the legality of Defense and Murder_

Chapter Eighty-Four

It had taken much convincing, but – after applying multiple doses of the antidote to Francois's now-chilled corpse, all without effect – Edward had come to terms with the fact that Francois Motierre was in fact dead. "But they said the blade wouldn't hurt him!" he protested to his valet, feeling somewhat sick and queasy.

"Yes sir," the other man answered, his tone very dry. "But I do believe that they didn't intend for you to stick it through his heart."

Edward glared at his servant. "They should have said that then!" he snapped.

The valet groaned. "It _is_ a commonly held principle, sir, that men do not go around jabbing pieces of metal through other men's hearts unless they mean to kill them."

Edward felt his hands twitching, and he was keenly aware of a sense of longing for another 'piece of metal' with which he might dispose of his servant in like manner as the now-deceased Motierre. Instead of attempting to murder the other man, however, he continued to argue his case. "Well, it isn't as though the Breton was a saint, anyway," he declared. "He was an underworld type too, until the watch offered him enough money to turn evidence on the others."

"Yes sir," the valet answered.

"So I'm sure he's done things worthy of death."

"Yes sir."

"So it isn't as though I've done anything terribly bad in killing him."

"No sir, I'm sure not."

He stared in irritation at his servant, whose flat tone clearly conveyed his disagreement, whatever his words expressed to the contrary. "I mean it!" he snapped. "He deserved to die. In fact, I probably did a service to the world in killing him."

"Oh yes sir. Quite."

"And it wasn't as though I did it deliberately," Edward continued, "so I'm sure the Brotherhood will understand."

"I'm sure, sir."

"I mean, it was their stupid directions that caused this anyway...if they had been more clear..."

The valet cleared his throat tactfully. "Oh, indeed sir. However, perhaps it would be wiser to contemplate this manner elsewhere? It is going to be...well, rather difficult to explain your presence here if the city watch should happen to knock on the door."

Edward turned ashen white. "They'll put me in jail for murder!" he gasped.

"Yes sir. Which is why it would be best if you were to leave."

Edward nodded quickly. "Alright, let's get out of here!" he told his servant. But, to his astonishment, the other man shook his head.

"No sir," he said. "I'm going to have to stay here. Everyone knows that Motierre hired me as his servant. So I'm going to have to explain this to the watch. Now, why don't you tie me up and stuff me in a corner over there-" He pointed to a little cubby-hole opposite the door. "And, of course, gag me. That way it will all look perfectly believable. I'll just tell them that the assassin overpowered me, and then murdered Francois. Simple enough, really."

So frightened at the prospect of jail time, Edward shook his head -- which now matched the rest of his shaking body -- and headed straight for the door. This was his servant's problem, not his, and he wasn't going to hang around to see him through it. The other man would have to deal as best as he was able with explaining his part in this sordid business, because he was going to get out of town as fast as his quaking legs could take him.

Utterly bent on cowardly flight as he was, Edward hadn't even given thought to making certain that his departure would go unnoticed. Instead, bursting through the front door, he ran headlong into the street, and into an armored body.


	85. Chapter 85

Cowards fly and flies cower,

Villains lie and liars vilify,

Whiners cry and criers whine,

Kvetchers crab and crabs kvetch.

– _On Villains and Animals_, by the Inebriated Odist

Chapter Eighty-Five

Landing on the cobblestones with a painful crash, Edward glanced up in dismay to see the same guard he'd met earlier, while he'd been planning a bout of arson against the symbol of Chorrol.

"Hullo again!" the other man exclaimed in surprise. "Is everything alright?"

But Edward was too terrified to answer or attempt a reasonable explanation. Instead, he leaped to his feet, and took to his heels.

"Hold up there!" he heard the guard call out. "Not so fast!" And he heard heavy footfalls behind him. All of these facts added urgency to his flight; but not enough to escape the athletic Chorrol guardsman who followed him.

"I say, sir," the man told him, laying hold of his shoulder and so bringing him to an immediate halt. "Hold on a moment!"

Spinning around, Edward implored for mercy. "I didn't do it! It was an accident! I didn't mean to kill him! It wasn't me, it was the valet!" Too late did he realize that the guard was extending a hand that held his purse -- which he'd apparently dropped in his fall -- and not arresting him for murder; until that outburst, of course.

The hand that held the bag of gold receded quickly, dropping the sack of money in order to retrieve a blade. And the congenial expression on the other man's face morphed into one of suspicion. "What's that you say? Kill who?"

Edward blinked in renewed terror. "Nothing!" he answered. "I was...joking!"

The guard's eyes narrowed, and his grip on Edward's shoulder tightened. "Let's just make sure of that, shall we?" he asked, marching the Imperial toward the spot where he'd fallen.

"Stop!" Edward protested, struggling hard to break free. "My purse! You dropped my purse full of gold!" But the iron grasp of the guard was not to be broken, and so Edward was dragged back to the stoop of Motierre's house.

"Now then," the guard was saying, "you were coming out of that place-" Here, he pointed with the tip of his still drawn sword. "-Like the daedra of Oblivion were nipping on your heels. How come?" His eyes narrowed suspiciously. "You ran off without taking your purse, so it wasn't theivery. What then?"

Edward swallowed hard. "I...it wasn't me! I didn't do it!" was all he could manage to stammer.

"Alright then," the guard shrugged. "Looks like we'll be doing some investigating." This said, he shoved Edward forward brusquely.

"No, please!" Edward protested. "I don't want to go in there again."

"How come?"

"Because I can't stand being next to..." He paused. "Bretons?" he asked, rather than stated. As of yet, he hadn't confirmed that there was a corpse in the building. This didn't seem a good time to do so -- particularly if he was going to persuade the guard to leave him outside whilst he investigated inside.

The guard growled. "Well, that's your misfortune. I'm a Breton, and you're coming along with me."

Edward whimpered. "Please, can't I just stay outside?" he pleaded. "I hate being near bodies!"

The guard did a double-take. "Bodies?!"

"Umm...yes," Edward answered, realizing too late that he'd given himself away again. His only hope now was that the guard at this news would go rushing in to investigate, leaving him free to escape.

This hope, too, was dashed as the other man shoved him forward a second time, more urgency in his rough handling than before. "Get moving!" he commanded.

Edward had no choice but to comply as the tip of the guard's blade had found its way to his back. Gulping, he threw open the doors to Francois Motierre's house, and awaited the worst. He had no doubt now that his valet would turn on him after his flight -- if he hadn't already escaped through the back of the house. Even less doubt was there in his mind that the Chorrol guards, ignoramuses that they were, would never understand the accidental nature of Motierre's death. He, Edward the Imperial, would be charged with murder, and spend the rest of his days rotting in a barbarian Breton jail, and all for accidentally killing a thug-turned-informant.

Stepping into the house, he was amazed by the scene he saw before him. Motierre was -- unfortunately, and despite his secretly hoping otherwise -- still dead, but his valet lay in a heap on the floor, blood oozing from a wound to his head. Standing still in utter amazement at this new turn of events, Edward yelped as the tip of the guard's blade dug into his flesh.

"Move!" the other man instructed, prodding him a bit harder with his blade.

Edward sprang forward, his only thought being escaping the painful sensation of metal digging deep into his back. He gave no mind to where his leap was taking him, and so screamed anew when his foot caught on the body of his servant and sent him reeling toward the corpse of Francois Motierre.

His last sensations were terror at being so near a corpse, and a strange, quick pain in his head. Then, everything went black.


	86. Chapter 86

When night has fallen,

When the sky is grim,

When death is calling,

Perhaps its time to sing.

– _On Irreverence, _ by the Inebriated Odist

Chapter Eighty-Six

Edward lay in his cell, his eyes firmly closed. He was, at the moment, pretending to be unconscious still. It was easy enough to make out what happened to him since he actually did lose consciousness, and then awoke; the guards had taken him to the dungeon and thrown him into prison. He'd heard them chattering outside his cell a few minutes earlier, and noted one man's voice telling another to keep an eye on "the prisoner "because "as soon as he wakes up, we're gonna have to interrogate him".

Thus warned, Edward had no intention of "waking up". For all that he cared, he'd pretend to be unconscious for the rest of his life if necessary; or, at least until he thought of a plausible story to get him out of this mess.

This latter plan of action was not going so well, however. He knew without a doubt that the guards would never believe the truth of the matter -- that he had accidentally killed Motierre; and, anyway, that still left him to explain his membership in the Dark Brotherhood. Plus, he honestly could provide no answers as to how his servant had been killed, because that had happened after he'd left -- and that, he knew, they'd believe even less. So, he tossed various ideas about in his mind.

"Maybe I could say that I was thief, breaking in to rob Motierre, and I just found the corpses," he mused. Then, difficulties with that story coming to mind, he frowned. "But they wouldn't believe that...I'm too respectable looking to be mistaken for a common sneak-thief." His brow pursed in thought as he followed a new idea. "Or, I suppose, I could always say that I had an appointment with Motierre, and when I arrived they were both dead." He toyed with this story for a few moments, but again decided against it. "It's too flimsy and convenient...they'll never believe it."

Then, all at once, a flash of inspiration struck him, and he bolted to an upright position. "I can cut a deal with them!" he thought, wild exultation flooding his mind. "I can turn the Brotherhood in in return for my own freedom!"

Congratulating himself at his own brilliance, he peered into the prison hall. It was empty. "Damn it!" he cursed. But he was not too vexed; after all, he didn't doubt that a guard would check in on him soon. And then it was simply a matter of stating his terms, getting the proper approval, and the rest would be, as they say, history.

Edward was grinning broadly when the outer prison door grated open, and light filled the gloomy prison. He heard heavy boots tromping in, and then saw the wearers of these boots. "Hello there!" he greeted the three soldiers of Chorrol. "You come to hear my story?"

The first guard to reach his cell grunted as he fiddled with a key. Then, unlatching the door, said, "No use...we already heard the truth of it from your valet."

Edward's self-satisfied expression turned into one of utter astonishment. "He...did?"

"Yup."

"You mean, he's not dead?"

"Nope. Now get out." The guard motioned for Edward to exit his cell.

"Out? You mean...?"

"Get! You're free!"

"Unless, of course," a second guard put in, "you'd like to remain." The trio of soldiers laughed amongst themselves. Edward, deciding that questions could wait, left them no more time to contemplate such a course of action, and scampered out of the cell hastily.

"You mean," he asked, now free of the bars, "I can go?"

"Unless you'd prefer to stay here," the second guard repeated.

Rolling his eyes as the trio broke into renewed laughter, Edward wasted no time in exiting the premises. It -- none of it -- made sense to him, but he wasn't going to scoff at freedom.

Practically racing into the open air, he stopped short of colliding head-on with his valet. "You're alive!" he gasped.

"That's right."

"I'm going to kill you!"

The other man blinked. "_You're_ going to kill _me_? After running off like an idiot like that?"

"Yes!" Edward snapped. "I thought you were dead!"

The valet's furious expression softened a touch, but, glancing about, he said, "Come on, let's go...we'll talk about this later."


	87. Chapter 87

There are happy days

So many happy days

Oh such happy days

In the company of Tamika's West Weald.

– Ode to Wine, by the Inebriated Odist

Chapter Eighty-Seven

Now that they were safely out of the hearing of the guards, the valet was proceeding to explain how he'd saved them both. "After you ran off like that," he said, and his tone expressed a marked degree of vexation, "I had to do something quick. So I knocked my head against a chair so that it looked all bruised and started bleeding. Then I brushed a few specks of Languor powder -- which is similar to the elixir that was on your dagger -- near the wound, so it would seep into my blood stream. It's very quick acting, and I lost consciousness immediately. When I woke -- and, since I had put so little into the wound, I woke fairly quickly -- I learnt that you were unconscious. I had imagined that you would protest your innocence, and that they would not believe you, and that would be that; but your being unconscious was even better. Then I told them the truth -- mostly. I said that I had been your valet, but that we'd quarreled and you'd dismissed me. I then found employ with Mr. Motierre -- which they knew was true. As far as today, I told them that a masked assassin broke in; we fought, but he was still able to kill my master; and that I was knocked unconscious by the fleeing villain. When they asked what you were doing there, I said mostly likely coming to ask me to return to service."

The valet cleared his throat, and looked somewhat abashed. "I'm afraid I had to paint you as, well, somewhat of a buffoon, sir," he added. "To make the story believable and all of that."

"A buffoon?" Edward demanded.

"Yes sir. And the guard who arrested you had no trouble believing it -- I think, in fact, that cinched the matter as far as he was concerned." Edward glared at him. "But, that was better than it could have been. I had been prepared to paint you as a lunatic, sir -- like I did up in Bruma -- if you had confessed or anything like that."

Edward's glare intensified. "Oh, well then, in that case..."

"Now, sir, back to my questions. Why in the name of Mehrunes Dagon did you go running into the plaza like that? Do you realize you could have saved us all a lot of frustration -- and pain!" Here, he rubbed the sore on his face.

Edward continued to glare at him, in part because he didn't have a real answer, aside from 'panic', and in part because he was furious with his servant. "Because..." he started, "well, clearly...I mean, obviously..."

"Yes sir?" the valet asked, an eyebrow raised.

"Well, who would believe that?" Edward finally answered, feigning exasperation. "I mean, I'm sure people saw me enter the house. I was sitting right outside of it! There would be witnesses. Someone would say, 'Wait a second, I saw that Imperial fellow, the handsome, smart one staying at the Oak & Crosier'." He ignored the way that the other man cleared his throat, and continued, inspired as it were with this current lie. "Then we both would have had some explaining to do! This way, when I ran away like -- like I was terrified, and panicking -- everyone believed it." The valet stared at him, his eyebrow still raised, but Edward rushed on. "Even you, I think, fell for my clever little ruse. So it looked perfectly natural that I had stumbled across the murder, and had fled at the sight of it."

"Well then," Dragonheart asked, his tone skeptical in the extreme, "why didn't you let me in on your 'clever little ruse'?"

This was a poser for Edward, but he shrugged and hemmed and hawed in an admirable fashion -- leastwise, for liars -- until he hit upon a plausible excuse. "Well, obviously," he told his servant, "your acting skills are not so refined as mine. You would have given the whole thing away, with your bungling. Look at you!" He pointed to the other man's bruised forehead. "You had to bludgeon yourself before you could come up with a plausible lie, and to knock yourself out with drugs." Edward scoffed. "Whereas I just...well, let the masterful, artistic side of me run rampant."

"Hmm..." the valet muttered, seemingly not very convinced.

Edward continued, though, intent on selling this lie to Dragonheart; he had, during his stay in Chorrol, grown tired of doing his own laundry and seeing to the more menial tasks in life, and so he wanted his servant back as soon as possible, and as fully and surely as ever. "Oh yes! You see, for me this is a matter of life and death. For me, I have to be able to fake my way out of situations like that. I don't act so much as _become_ the character I play. So then -- when I was playing the coward -- I didn't act a coward, I let myself _become_ a coward. I let the role take me over, until I was but a slave to its dictates." He shrugged in mock self-deprecation. "So much a slave that you, my good friend and loyal servant, who above all men knows the steadfastness and courage of my heart, doubted -- nay, doubt still! What is that, that doubt you feel, but a testament to my great powers of acting?"

The valet frowned at him. "An indication that you're lying?" he asked.

"Ah!" Edward said quickly. "Good! You see? You begin to understand! It is almost a lie to say that I was acting, because, in that instant, I had so wholly become the coward that I was as much a coward as the character that I portrayed -- the buffoon, as you rightly termed him to the guards." He nodded vigorously. "Now, you see, I -- being the judge of character that I am, that I have to be to survive in my line of work -- knew that I could trust you to think of some magnificent cover story for yourself. But I could not leave you in suspicion, my friend. Oh no, I could not do that. Because, if people saw me enter, and you told a story that did not correspond, they would say, 'Ah, the valet is in on the plot!' And then you and I together would be hanged. But I thought to myself, 'We have no time now to sit and strategize; people have seen me enter, perhaps heard our struggle, and know that something bad has happened...now we must act as if we were these roles that we are playing. I must be the coward and buffoon that the townsmen know -- the one who drinks and chases women and makes a fool of himself. And you -- you must be the valet, the good, loyal servant, who witnessed the murder but could do nothing to stop it. So, since I am my character, I flee; and you remain behind." He shrugged again. "And I know how smart you are, and how quick is your brain...so I know that you will think as fast as lightning, and come up with some marvelous story. And I will pretend to be a fool and buffoon and coward, and run away. And then I will trip, and lose consciousness until I have heard your story, so that I do not contradict it."

Edward paused to gasp for breath, having come to the end of his lengthy explanation. He was, despite his breathlessness, rather proud of himself for his elaborate bluff. Dragonheart, for his part, frowned at him, as though lost in thought.

"Well, then, sir," he asked at last, "if that's true, how did you know I wouldn't just turn you in to save myself?"

A pang of betrayal shot through Edward at these words, but he suppressed his thoughts of "_That little bastard! How dare he even think of betraying me?!_" Instead, he answered smoothly, "Ah, but I know you to well to think you capable of such baseness!"

The valet's expression brightened, and then broke into a smile. "True enough, sir. Well then, your logic is good, so you must be telling the truth."

Edward smiled and accepted these words, but, inwardly, he found himself cursing his servant. The man was clearly not trustworthy, he thought, to even consider such a betrayal. "_If only life was not so damned difficult and complicated,_" he mused inwardly. "_If only one didn't have to worry about things like laundry and paying for things and tedious details. Then I could send this ingrate packing without having to fend for myself._"

"Sir?" the valet asked, interrupting his thoughts. "Is everything alright?"

Edward started, realizing that he was sighing in a very melancholy manner.


	88. Chapter 88

Killers, run, run, run for the hills!

Murderers, hide, hide, hide in the shadows!

Take heed, heed, heed, there's danger waiting!

– Line from "_The Ten Killers_", as spoken by the character Quivile

Chapter Eighty-Eight

Edward had given his wayward servant the afternoon off -- the other man had indicated that he'd wanted to meet up with an old friend and, upon learning that the friend was a "filthy Argonian", he'd lost the sliver of interest he'd had in meeting his valet's friend. So, left to his own devices, Edward decided that he'd pursue the one thread of inquiry that might, just might, lead him to his Emperor and victim -- Friar Jauffre.

It was a quick ride to Weynon Priory, and, with much dread and a slight pang of guilt in his heart, Edward dismounted. He was ready to find that the Friar had been murdered days ago by the Mythic Dawn. At least then, though, he might be able to question his subordinates.

The place was eerily still as Edward walked toward the Priory house, and the early afternoon sun seemed to look upon the desolation in a mocking brightness. His footsteps rang loudly on the cobblestones, and he could feel his pulse racing. There was an inexplicable, but dread, fear upon him.

Perhaps, he mused with a touch of annoyance, it was conscience. There was nothing for it, however, so he pushed open the priory door, and stepped into a poorly lit interior. All at once, he felt the cold touch of steel at his throat, and heard a laughing voice speak to him.

"Ahh, so you didn't get the point, eh?" it asked. "You want to follow your buddies?"

Edward croaked in alarm as he realized the steel was in fact a blade, digging most uncomfortably into his neck.

"Prepare to die, assassin!" the voice continued.

"Please!" Edward begged. "Spare me!" He couldn't see the speaker, but he felt sure that he recognized the malicious, satisfied voice as that of Friar Jauffre's.

"Hold on a second!" it boomed. "Is that...?" A sudden sputter of light illuminated the side of Edward's face, and he pressed himself against the door jam as the flame of a candle passed alarmingly close to his face. "It is! Well, by the Dragon's toes!" it continued. "What are you doing here, slimy?"

Feeling the blade slip away from his throat, Edward glanced behind him. To his amazed horror, he saw Friar Jauffre, but not the Friar that he remembered. Rather than an irate, bellicose but restrained little monk, he saw a frenzied man of war, his eyes flashing with fury, and his robes streaked with blood. "Umm...what's going on?" he breathed. "Have I come at a bad time or something?"

"Oh no, the perfect time! The perfect time!" Jauffre exclaimed enthusiastically. "We just fought back a wave of those worthless dirt-eating assassins. There!" The monk jabbed with his fingers into the dimly lit interior.

"Umm...what?" Edward, squinting to see anything as his eyes were still a little dazzled by the candle that had been thrust so close to his face.

"Oh, that's right," the monk acknowledged with a nod. "There's no more of them out there, is there?"

Edward, seeing that this question was directed at him, although he had no idea what it meant, said, "Umm, no?"

"Ahh good," the monk nodded. With this, he walked from Edward's side to several candles and torches throughout the room.

Edward watched in growing horror as first one pocket of light, and then another, and then another sprang up to light an intensely macabre sight.

"Here," the monk declared, setting his candle down on a table. "I was just finishing up my work-" With this, he pointed to a pile of corpses. "-When I heard you coming. I thought it must be more of the toad faces, so I put out the light and waited for you." He sighed, and Edward was sure that it was a disappointed sigh. "But that's alright," he said after a moment. "You can help me now."

"Help you?" Edward croaked. His eyes were transfixed on a pile of headless corpses in one end of the room.

"That's right," the monk answered. "Here! Help me carry these." This said, he bent to lift a bundle of pikes that, for whatever reason, Edward had somehow missed up until now.

Seeing what was on the end of these pikes, however, proved too much for Edward, who fell suddenly into a dead faint.


	89. Chapter 89

Rivers run to the seas,

Life ends in death,

It is the way of things

So embrace what you cannot change!

-- Musings on Death, by Friar Jauffre  
Chapter Eighty-Nine

Edward had not been able to stop retching ever since he'd woken up. He was currently outside by the stables, where Friar Jauffre had insisted he stay while he did his "vile business"; for his own part, the mad little monk was running about the Priory grounds, planting pikes atop which were situated various severed heads, all frozen into some macabre grimace of death. This, he'd told Edward, was to "warn those filthy little heathens" should they want to "have another go at old Jauffre."

Hearing an all-too-familiar laugh of satisfaction, Edward felt the bile rising in his throat once more. He had somehow managed to loose what must have taken months to get inside him; and yet still his stomach churned and heaved.

"Alright now, lad!" the friar declared, slapping his shoulder with a bloody hand. "Now, what are you here for?"

Edward fought the urge to retch again despite the overwhelming odor of blood and death that the monk carried with him, less from any strength of his own than the mere emptiness of his innards. "I came to ask you..." he started, and then turned away to gag anew.

He heard the monk sigh impatiently, and he felt his knees quavering as much as his stomach. Friar Jauffre was clearly not one to annoy.

Finishing this latest bout of sickness as quickly as he could, he faced the monk. "I came to ask you about the Emperor," he answered.

He noticed Jauffre turn a shade greener as his breath hit him. "Ye gods!" the friar declared disgustedly, stepping away from him. "I've gutted men whose insides smelled better than your breath!"

Edward felt the urge to retch come on him again, but he fought it. He had no desire to test the patience of the man who had, apparently single-handedly, just fought off a dozen or so Mythic Dawn assassins, and then decorated his priory grounds with their heads. "Umm...sorry," he replied. "But, anyway, about the Emperor. I need more information on him."

The friar's fiery eyes narrowed with suspicion. "Why?"

"Umm, well, because I..." He felt his knees shaking again, and cursed himself for never being prepared. Why hadn't he thought of an answer to this inevitable question?! "I, umm, want to find him."

"What for?"

"To, umm..." Edward hesitated. He obviously couldn't say "kill him". So what could he say? "Serve him!" he finished.

The monk burst into laughter. "You? Look here, slimy, the Emperor needs real men! Not little weaklings like you."

Edward grimaced, but rightly decided it was better to put up with this abuse than to contradict the abuser, much less whilst he was still feeling the effects of bloodlust.

"It's a noble thought," the monk continued, "or a damned fool one -- although I do think you'd make a fine little corpse. But Martin doesn't need you getting in his way. He's weak enough as it is without interference from your ilk."

"But," Edward began, "maybe if-"

"Nope," Jauffre answered, shaking his head. "There's an end of it, I'm afraid. Now come, you better be going. I've work to do. Those filthy assassins murdered my friends, and I've got to get to work burying their bodies."

Edward nodded. Perhaps, deranged as he was, there was some good in the monk after all, he thought.

"As it is," Jauffre continued, "their heads are already adorning my priory."

Edward blinked. "Their heads?"

The monk nodded. "No sense letting good corpses go to waste," he told Edward. "Figured they'd fit right in with the assassins -- nobody'd know the difference, as heads on pikes tend to do a pretty good job of disguising whose a good guy or a bad guy." He shrugged, and explained with the faintest hint of a grin, "Heads is heads, when they're dead. And since they're already dead, figured they wouldn't mind. And it's a sight more impressive having all those heads than if there were fewer, isn't it?"


	90. Chapter 90

Blades of steel,

Steel-hearted Blades,

Well armored warriors,

They are the empire's armor.

-- Song of the Blades, written by Friar Jauffre

Chapter Ninety

Edward had made the mistake of pleading once more with Jauffre for information, and, for that, he'd been drafted into grave digging. His protests had fallen on deaf ears, and, barely catching the shovel that had been hurled at him, he thought it better to fall in line and do as he was told that risk the ire of Friar Jauffre.

For his own part, Jauffre was patrolling the Priory grounds to "keep an eye out for those assassins." He seemed, Edward noted, completely oblivious to the actual reason that the Mythic Dawn had come -- the Amulet of Kings. Instead, he was absorbed in some fanciful notion that the Mythic Dawn agents had come to assassinate him, and would without doubt be back.

Knee deep in the hole he'd dug, Edward was already panting heavily. Grave digging was not easy work -- and that much less so when everywhere he looked were the the grim expressions and listless gazes of decapitated heads, strategically placed about the Priory grounds as a sort of macabre décor. Worse yet was the pile of headless corpses that the monk had carried out and deposited with no great concern in a heap next to the hole on which Edward was working.

The thought of running had occurred to Edward, but he felt sure that he'd never be able to outrun the bellicose little monk even on horseback. Then he would be just one more head guarding the Priory, he knew.

Gritting his teeth, Edward sunk his spade deep into the earth beneath him. There was nothing for it but to dig these graves, or die in the attempt, he knew. Heaving heavy, damp shovelfuls of earth over his shoulder, time seemed to slow to a crawl. His muscles ached, and he was sweating profusely -- as much from fear as from exertion. Furthermore, his progress was agonizingly slow, and made all the more so by the nauseating smell that wafted from the headless, still bleeding corpses nearby. "This," he thought, "must surely be what hell is."

"Alright my lad!" an eager voice sounded behind him, causing him to start. "Looks like it's all clear, for the present anyway. I can help you now." This said, Friar Jauffre -- the speaker -- leaped into the hole beside Edward, wielding a shovel of his own.

As strange as it was to be disheartened by assistance in this seemingly endless task, Edward felt his heart sink. It was one thing to be doomed to hell; and another entirely to serve alongside the devil.

"Right now," Jauffre continued, "this is always the best part, you know."

Edward stared at him. "It is?"

"Yup. Here you lay the bastards to rest, good and proper. Making the grave -- it's like poetry," the monk explained, his shovel flying at least as fast as his words. "A good grave digger is like a fine poet. He can craft a masterpiece from a simple hole in the earth."

Edward just stared at the other man wordlessly.

"It comes naturally to some men, but even then you have to work at it."

"Digging?"

Jauffre nodded. "It's part of a monk's business, you know, knowing how to dig a proper grave. For the sick and all of that, of course, plus cases like these." He paused, glancing up at Edward, who -- while listening to him -- had stopped working. A frown creased his brow. "Well get on with it, boy!" he reprimanded.

Edward started anew, and jumped back to work. Still the monk prattled on. "It's easy for men of my piety to make enemies. This isn't the first time I've had assassins after me, I can tell you that much! Two of them came the other day, too; unfortunately, I was out and the Brothers were able to handle them. But that fool Brother Piner insisted that they be buried intact." Jauffre shook his head darkly, pausing only long enough to point out a patch of fresh earth on the other side of the lawn. "That's where I put them -- I dug the graves, of course. If only Piner had listened to me...then it would be their heads adorning the lawn, and not his." He laughed to himself at these words, as if satisfied that his point had been made to Brother Piner. Edward shuddered.


	91. Chapter 91

Dear Bishop Clemence,

Forgive me for writing, but I feel compelled by honor to do so. I must make a formal protest against the vehemence with which Frair Jauffre drives the acolytes. I sometimes fear for their safety – and my own, when he gets into a proper rage. Please advise, as I don't know that even my soothing spells can control the man.

Yours respectfully, etc.,

Prior Maborel

-- Letter dated two years prior to Prior Maborel's death, sent to Bishop Clemence

Chapter Ninety-One

Edward was so exhausted that his knees were trembling with fatigue; but, at last, the final corpse was buried. "Now then," Jauffre, who seemed, if anything, more exhilarated by the work, "I've been thinking of what you said to me. And I suppose that, if a man can dig a grave as well as you, he might be of some use to me."

Edward wheezed at him, which was, in his state, the closest he could come to expressing agreement.

"So, I'll tell you what I know about the Emperor -- and it isn't much, but it's what we have." This said, he paused to look around. "Well, not 'we' anymore I guess." He laughed at something that was apparently meant as humor, but which bypassed Edward completely. "Anyhow, he used to study here. He wanted to become a priest." Edward couldn't repress an involuntary shudder at the idea, but Jauffre seemed not to notice. "Like I said, some of his friends died during a cram session...after that, he packed up and left." Jauffre grimaced at the recollection. "No stomach for death, that one. And a man who can't stomach death isn't fit for life, seeing as how death is the natural result of life."

Edward blinked, amazed by his own brain, which somehow followed Jauffre's logic.

"But we let him leave...Prior Maberel was strict in regards to fighting, and it didn't matter how much a man deserved a good beating...if he hadn't attacked you, you couldn't hit him." He sighed. "Anyhow...he left. The last I heard, he was working for an elf-" He said this word with marked disgust. "An elf in the Imperial City." He shook his head. "To think that our Emperor -- our Emperor! -- subjected himself to such degradation as working ...and for a barbarian, at that!" His lips were curled in disgust, and it made Edward very uncomfortable that he could understand the monk's feelings on the subject.

He was silent several moments, apparently lost in disgusted reverie. Then, he glanced up at Edward, his expression once again bright and cheerful, despite the somewhat psychotic gleam in his eye. "So, that's all we know," he told him. "If that helps you, good for you. And, of course, if you do happen to track him down, you have to bring him back here." As Edward made no attempt to agree, he pressed, "Right?"

"Umm, yes, definitely," Edward hastened to confirm.

"Good man," Jauffre nodded with satisfaction, adding with a smile, "We'll make a proper Imperial of you yet." Edward managed a nervous laugh. "Now you'd better get going...those assassins didn't get me this time...they'll try again!"

Edward frowned. "Are you sure they were after you," he asked without thinking, "and not the amulet?"

Jauffre gasped, and Edward cursed himself for his big mouth. "The Amulet!" Jauffre exclaimed. "It might be...that would explain their persistence in the face of certain death!"

Edward nodded meekly, but the monk seized his arm and dragged him toward the Priory House. Strangling a gurgle of fear and an outcry of pain as the little man's bony fingers dug into his flesh, Edward thought it best to obey the summons without protest. Pushing his already weary legs beyond their last reserves of strength, Edward was only barely able to make it into the gloomy, bloodstained house, up the likewise stained stairs, and into a room that he'd not even noticed the first time he entered.

Jauffre loosed a scream of fury so tremendous it might have echoed from the bowels of Oblivion itself as he sunk to his knees near a smashed chest. "It's gone!" he growled.

"Maybe it was on one of those guys you buried?" Edward wondered, again speaking before he thought. He gasped as soon as the words escaped his lips, however, knowing that that could easily mean digging up a dozen headless corpses in the now setting sunlight.

But, to his eternal relief, Jauffre shook his head. "No," he answered. "I searched their bodies before I cut their heads off. None of them had the amulet."

Edward couldn't help but feel a twinge of pity for the monk as he stared at him, his bent form hovering over the smashed chest in such a despairing fashion. At last he glanced up at Edward, and his eyes seemed to convey the sense of loss his posture had only hinted at. "That means," he said, his voice trembling with raw emotion as he spoke, "that one of them got away!"


	92. Chapter 92

To bend a fool to one's will,

Is by no means a trifling matter.

For manipulation to be successful

One must be ever so cunning.

– An excerpt from a piece translated in the scholarly work "_Writings of Old, Dead People_"

Chapter Ninety-Two

Edward's legs felt as dead weights underneath him as he trudged towards Chorrol. His horse, apparently bored by the goings on with Jauffre, had abandoned him at the Priory, and returned to its stables outside of the city -- leaving Edward to walk home. Though it was not a long walk, it had taken Edward two hours; and still he was just outside the gates of the town.

One of the guards nodded a greeting, surveying him with concerned eyes. "Everything alright, sir?"

Edward grunted in response, though what his grunt was meant to signify was not clear, and passed through the gate that the guard held open for him. His eyes were glazing over with exhaustion, and he had half a mind to collapse on a bench or grassy knoll for the evening.

This thought, however, was put on hold by the excited voice of his servant. "Sir!" it called to him. "There you are!" The other man came running up, and Edward stared at him, lacking the energy to inquire what the excitement was all about. "Oh, sir, I'm so glad I found you! Quick! You must come with me -- there's not a moment to lose!" This said, the valet proceeded to practically drag Edward to the Oak and Crosier.

Once inside, he turned to his master again. "Quick sir, you've got to get your things together! We have to head out now!"

But Edward pushed past him, stumbling up the stairs and into his own room in just enough time to avoid collapsing from exhaustion in front of the establishment's other patrons. His valet, apparently realizing the extent of his fatigue, left him to the sleep that overwhelmed him until early the next morning.

Then, bursting into his room with packed bags, a hot breakfast and strongly brewed coffee, he woke Edward. "Alright sir," he said, "it's time to get up."

Edward groaned as the sun poured through suddenly opened blinds. The smell of food teased his senses and toyed with his empty stomach, as did the aroma of coffee. Yet sleep still tugged at his eyelids.

In the end, the Imperial's appetite won out, and -- though not at all pleased by the development -- Edward woke to eat. His valet hurriedly explained whilst he wolfed down the food set before him. "I am dreadfully sorry to get you up so early, sir, but there's not a moment to delay! My friend -- you remember I told you about her, Seed-Neeus? Her daughter -- Dar-Ma -- has gone missing, and we've got to find her!"

Edward glanced up at his valet, his mouth stuffed with eggs and toasted bread. "You mean," he managed through the mouthful, "the Lizard?"

The valet grimaced. "Yes sir, my Argonian friend."

Edward attempted an expression of disgust, but, with his mouth full as it was, the nearest he got was a toad-like simper.

"So you see," Dragonheart was continuing, "we've got to go find her! Seed-Neeus is frantic! She hasn't seen her in days."

Swallowing his mouthful, Edward sighed. He had absolutely no intention of getting drawn into the domestic troubles of lizards, and was appalled that his foolish servant would even posit such a course of action. "I'm afraid," he told his valet, "that I'm not interested."

Shock filled his valet's face. "But sir!" he protested. "This isn't like Dar-Ma! She was just making a delivery of goods to Hackdirt, and should have been back already. She's not the type to run off, or get waylaid by something unless it was important."

"Then why doesn't your lizard friend go herself," Edward asked, "if it's so important to her?"

"The same reason that she had Dar-Ma take the delivery up to Hackdirt -- she's been very ill lately, and barely able to manage her shop for a few hours a day!"

Edward frowned at his valet's clear concern for the Argonian. "Look here," he told him, his tone expressive of his distaste for the very idea, "I've not the faintest interest in the trials of the barbarian folk. I've got to get to the Imperial City, and you -- as my servant -- are going with me. The barbarians will have to look after themselves."

His valet's cheeks flushed, and then he straightened up very rigidly. "Very well sir. Well then, I'm afraid this is going to have to serve as my notice, effective as of now."

Edward blinked at the other man. "Notice? You mean...you're quitting?"

"Yes sir," the valet answered. "I'm afraid you've left me no choice."

Edward's eyes bulged with fury. "How dare you quit, you...you...you ungrateful servant?!"

"You've left me no alternative, sir. I cannot abandon my friend now, when she needs my help...and you're not going to assist, so I have no option -- though it pains me to do it -- but to say farewell."

Edward clenched his teeth. "She needs you? I need you too!" he snapped. "Who is going to wash and mend my laundry? Who is going to take care of my horse? Who is going to..."

The valet sighed. "I'm sure you'll be able to manage by yourself, sir. And, as trying as that will be, I'm afraid it doesn't compare with Seed-Neeus' troubles."

Edward's eyes blazed. He couldn't believe the insolence of his servant, nor could he stand the idea of fending for himself. The latter thought cooled the raging fury inside him, however. "Look here," he said, his tone more reasonable than he felt, "surely...I mean, can't she just..."

The valet shook his head. "Dar-Ma is her daughter, sir! She's worried sick about her! I've got to go find her." Then, his eyes lighting up, he added, "I'm sure it won't take long, sir. The trek to Hackdirt isn't very long, and I'm sure we'll find her along the way. She's probably been waylaid by some sort of injury or something, and is awaiting rescue."

Edward clenched his jaw in frustration. This was a degradation of the worst sort, being forced into helping a barbarian lizard...and yet it apparently was highly important to his wayward servant. "You wouldn't quit then?"

"Oh, no sir!" the valet exclaimed exuberantly. "Of course not!"

"Seeing as how important it is that I find the Emperor, and how your assistance makes it easier for me to concentrate on the task itself rather than trivial distractions?" Edward continued.

Dragonheart flushed guiltily. "Yes sir...and you know I would never distract you unless it was of the utmost importance."

Edward rolled his eyes, but acquiesced. "Alright, alright, I'll go," he sighed.


	93. Chapter 93

Though havoc he wreaks on my empire,

I rather enjoy watching him flounder,

And trudge about in his self-made mire

Gods, but he's such a no-good bounder.

-- Musings of the Ninth

Chapter Ninety-Three

A very displeased Edward and an ecstatic valet headed out of Chorrol later that morning. Edward was riding his own horse, who had greeted her master with about as much pleasure as he'd greeted her -- a snort of disgust from both. Dragonheart rode his horse, but pulled a second behind him. This was one sent by Seed-Neeus for her daughter, if need be. The valet and she had both expressed a hope that this was a simple delay, such as Dar-Ma's horse having come to injury...but their dark expressions had conveyed the fears that they sought to hide in their optimistic phrases.

"You do realize," Edward was telling his servant, "that if my business was not so pressing, and of such import, that I wouldn't put up with your threats."

"I know sir, it's just that-"

"If it wouldn't have taken me so long to sort through the myriad applicants who would flood my door upon hearing that I was looking for a new servant, I would never tolerate your insolence."

The valet cleared his throat tactfully. "No sir."

"And once my business is done, and I have more time..."

"You needn't fear," Dragonheart interrupted. "I would never -- have never -- will never! do something like that unless it is the direst of emergencies."

Edward grimaced. In his mind, there was nothing whatever dire about a barbarian going missing. This, however, he kept to himself.

"So, sir," the valet continued, tactfully changing the subject, "I take it by your dirt-covered clothes last night that you had met Friar Juaffre?"

Edward stared at him quizzically. How could the dirt on his clothes give that away, he wondered?

Dragonheart nodded. "Ahh yes...the little grave-digging ritual."

Edward's eyes opened wide. "What?"

The valet shook his head, explaining, "The man has a very peculiar philosophy about death, sir."

Edward grimaced.

"Although I suspect you've learnt something of it already."

"Unfortunately."

"Well, just be thankful you weren't studying to become a monk," Dragonheart continued with a shudder.

"A monk?"

"Yes sir. It's one of the initiation rituals with him. He says a good monk's got to be able to dig a good grave, so he can lay good men to good rest as well as the bad ones." The valet shuddered again. "It's a miracle anyone survives Friar Jauffre's training."

Edward sighed again, nodding in agreement.

"But I suppose, if you two ended up on such friendly terms as digging graves together, he must have told you something?"

Edward glared at his servant for characterizing his frightful relationship with the deranged little monk as "friendly". "Yes," he answered, "he did."

"Well?" the valet prodded.

Pursing his face, the pompous Imperial sniffed. "Nothing of interest to you," he answered, "servant."

The valet sighed. "Come on, sir. I might be able to help!"

Edward laughed; but, for all his sneering, he still answered, "He used to study with Friar Jauffre, but, after some freak studying accident, he left to work in the Imperial City."

The valet's expression had gone gray while he talked, but lit up as he finished. "Really, sir? And did Friar Jauffre give a name?"

Edward sniffed hesitantly again, this time to allow his mind to think. He remembered the monk mentioning a name, but couldn't recall what it had been. "Marcus?" he said at last.

Dragonheart's brow creased in thought. "Marcus...hmm...are you sure it wasn't 'Matthieus'?" he asked.

Edward frowned at the other man. "Of course I'm sure!" he snapped. Then, he added, "Why?"

"Because I don't think there was anyone studying with Jauffre at that time called Marcus, but there was a Matthieus -- and he left to work in the Imperial City."

Edward felt excitement swell in his breast, but he tried to look disinterested. "Oh?" he asked. "Well, I suppose it _might_ have been Matthieus." The name sounded vaguely familiar to him, as did Marcus. "But how would you know, anyway?"

"Because," the valet answered, a flicker of pain crossing his face, "I was one of Jauffre's students, once. I was there when...the accident happened."

Edward stared at him open-mouthed. "You? Why didn't you say anything before?!" he demanded.

"I did, sir," the valet reminded him. "The first time you visited the Priory. Leastwise, I tried. But you shushed me."

Edward's face flushed, but he changed the subject. "So you were one of those morons?" he asked. "What happened? Jauffre said it was some sort of studying-session-gone-wrong."

Pain again flitted across Dragonheart's face. "Yes sir, that's right. We were...well, so devoted to becoming priests." He sighed, and Edward shuddered at the idea. "It seemed at the time such a noble calling, to do good for the world." The valet shrugged, adding, "Even after we met Friar Jauffre, we still held to our dream. But then..." He sighed again. "I'm sorry, sir, I'd really prefer not to talk about it."

Edward frowned deeply at him, thinking to himself, "_Ye gods, what a bunch of idiots they must have been...and to think -- if this one lived through it, what must the others have been like?_" Aloud, however, he said, "Yes, well, that's very tragic and all, but...what about Matthew, or whatever his name is?"

"Matthieus, sir," the valet corrected. "He was one of the students -- and actually a pretty good friend of mine."  
Edward grimaced. "_How pretentious_," he thought, "_of this trifling fool to pretend that an Emperor would deign to associate with him._"

Dragonheart continued, "He had had a rough life of things, you know. His mother was a Nord who had married an Imperial. They'd lived up in Bruma, but the cold plagued his bones as a child. His mother died when he was young, and, a few years later, his father disappeared on a Legion mission."

Edward gaped. "You mean...our Emperor is a barbarian?!"


	94. Chapter 94

Feed the hungry souls,

Quench their thirst,

Wet the parched lips,

And pass the grog.

-- Excerpt from a translation of the _"Bible of the Deep Ones"_

Chapter Ninety-Four

"So, after the accident," Dragonheart continued, "it was too much for us."

Edward discreetly rolled his eyes, finding with dismay the words of Friar Jauffre coming to mind. "_Weakling_."

"We went our separate ways...Matthieus and I ended up in the Imperial City, searching for work. He ended up finding employment with a wealthy family in the city, and I started in service with Lord Umbacano. We stayed in contact for a long time, and came to realize that -- while not as noble as being a priest -- there was a definite nobility in our calling...after all, we were the ones who made it possible for great men to continue being, well, great!"

Edward rolled his eyes again, but said nothing. As far as he was concerned, being a subservient slave was about as appealing as ending up on one of Friar Jauffre's pikes.

"But then...well, when Lord Umbacano fired me..." The valet shook his head, lowering his eyes. "I was so ashamed...I couldn't face my friend after such a disgrace."

Edward frowned at him. "Why _did_ he fire you, by the way?" he asked.

"I told you, sir," the valet answered, glancing up. "He wanted to save money to put to use acquiring pieces for his art collection."

Shaking his head, Edward sighed. His valet was a strange man, he thought.

"Anyway, after that disgrace, I left the Imperial City, humiliated. I found employ at the Inn of Ill Omen, which -- being so far out of the way -- seemed a good place to hide away in shame. Then...well, eventually you came along."

Edward sighed again, not in any way moved by his valet's words -- except moved to annoyance. "But, anyway," he said, "you know what this Matty fellow looks like?"

The valet nodded. "Of course, sir," he answered. "And I'll wager he's still hard at work in the City."

Edward nodded. "Then, as soon as we're done wasting time chasing wayward barbarians, we can get to work," he murmured.

"Sir?"

"Oh, nothing."

The other man accepted this explanation, and the two fell into silence as they rode, the valet keeping ever vigilant for the missing girl, and Edward daydreaming of what it would be like when Matthieus was dead, and the great Dragon made him Emperor.

The sun was setting by time Hackdirt came into sight, and Edward had just made up his mind that, after dragging him up here to this primitive little outpost, his wayward servant would be the first on his royal executioner's list after he became Emperor. The thought was only reinforced as they approached the drab little town, with its burnt out shells of buildings standing alongside residences, and its old, gloomy demeanor.

"Sir," his valet said, interrupting him from his thoughts, "we haven't seen hide nor hair of Dar-Ma on the way up here...so it's most likely that she got to town before vanishing. It's possible that she's still here, but...well, let's just be careful."

Edward glared at him. "Edward the Imperial is _always_ careful," he shot back.

"Yes sir, I know that...that's not what I meant," Dragonheart hurried to answer. "I mean that...well, Hackdirt is a strange place, with a violent past."

Edward eyed him suspiciously. "How violent? And why are you only telling me this now?"

"Well sir," the valet answered, ignoring the second question altogether, "No one is quite sure...there are rumors...but rumors are just that."

"What rumors?"

"Well sir, all anyone knows for sure is that the Legion was called in here years ago...no one ever said what for...that was official Legion business, and it was kept very hush-hush." Edward frowned. "But the rumors hinted at...well, human sacrifice."

Edward's frown morphed into a wide-eyed gape. "_Now_ you choose to tell me this?!" he demanded.

"I had hoped," the valet explained with a shrug, "that we wouldn't even have to come to the town."

Glaring at the other man, Edward toyed with praying to the great Dragon for ultimate revenge against such marked insolence. "Please, mighty Marooned Dragon," he whispered, "if this idiot ends up getting me killed...well, please exact terrible vengeance on behalf of your loyal slave!" He paused in prayer, a happy thought coming to him. "In fact, please send Friar Jauffre after him!"


	95. Chapter 95

"...stupor inducing rituals in which strange substances in various forms (liquid, solid and gaseous) were inhaled, ingested and imbibed, and also blood sacrifices of creatures large and small, animal mostly, but human if the inhabitants were able to lay their hands on anyone, were performed. We found no evidence of the creatures called 'the Deep Ones', but we found many so-called 'Brethren'. Due to the excess of hallucinogenics discovered in the caverns and the inebriated state of those discovered therein, it is the opinion of those present that the 'Brethren' – who are the sole communicators with the 'Deep Ones' – have either dreamt or invented the creatures..."

-- Excerpt from an Imperial Legion report, detailing the first destruction of Hackdirt

Chapter Ninety-Five

Edward felt his skin crawl as their horses rode into Hackdirt. "What kind of name is that for a town, anyway?" he wondered. The only image that the name conjured in his mind was grave digging with Friar Jauffre, and he had had quite enough hacking of dirt to last him a lifetime.

Dusk was so far progressed that all was now various hues of deep gray; and what little moonlight there was was often enough hidden behind the clouds.

"Alright, sir," his valet told him in hushed tones, "it doesn't look like anyone is going to come out to meet us. No worries, as it's said they don't take kindly to 'outsiders' here."

Edward grimaced. No worries indeed. He was only traipsing into a den of barbarian human sacrificers who hated strangers...why would he worry, after all?

"We should have a look around town to see if we can find anything...and then I guess head over to Moslin's Dry Goods, which is where Dar-Ma was headed with her goods."

"Are you sure we shouldn't...well, just head home and tell her mother that we didn't see her?" Edward asked, adding for the sake of his valet's conscience, "We wouldn't even be lying!"

The other man ignored his comment, however, and drew his and Seed-Neeus' horses toward an ally. Edward followed unwillingly, silently cursing his servant's insolence.

"Aha!" he heard Dragonheart exclaim.

Rolling his eyes out of sheer annoyance, he urged his horse forward to see what the other man was exclaiming about. Turning exasperated eyes toward him, he said, "It's a horse? So what?"

"It's Blossom, sir!" the valet answered. "Dar-Ma's horse!"

"Well, how fascinating..."

"Which means she must be inside."

"Which also means that we wasted this entire trip..." Edward growled.

"Maybe," Dragonheart answered musingly. "But let's go in to make sure, why don't we?"

Grumbling to himself, Edward dismounted, leaving his horse beside the other three. Despite the fact that he was not feeling cooperative, he would rather go with his obdurate servant than stay outside by himself after sunset in this gloomy little town.

Hurrying to keep up with Dragonheart's quick, determined step, Edward grimaced as the other man pushed open the door to a little shop, outside of which hung a sign that read "Moslin's Dry Goods". Edward watched his servant glance about before stepping inside, and then followed.

The shop was not terribly large, or terribly well stocked; nor, for that matter, was it terribly clean.

"Excuse me," the valet stated, approaching a dark-haired woman. "You must be Miss Moslin?"

"Etira Moslin," the woman replied, glancing up. To Edward's relief, she was an Imperial. "What business do you have in Hackdirt?"

Edward, grateful after all of his fears to see a friendly face -- or an Imperial one, at least -- stepped forward quickly, brushing past Dragonheart as he did so. "Ahh," he greeted, "my dear lady. We are here on an errand for a friend of my servant." He sighed. "It's a long story, so I'll skip the details about how we ended up on such a futile task..._but_ we are here because _someone_ was worried about a missing Lizard."

The valet cleared his throat and himself stepped forward. "What my friend means," he cut in quickly, "is that we are here on behalf of Seed-Neeus. As you must know, her daughter, Dar-Ma, was making her monthly delivery of goods here."

The woman scoffed. "How would I know? The little cheat never showed up! I've been waiting on her supplies all this time, and not a word from her."

Edward shook his head. "Barbarians," he sighed. "You can never trust them."

But his valet frowned. "I see," he answered, his tone clearly showing his disbelief. "That's a very odd claim, seeing as how the girl's horse is stabled behind your house."

Now, a perceptive set of eyes might have noticed an involuntary flinch in Etira Moslin; but Edward's saw only his foolish servant badgering a respectable Imperial in the mistaken service of a miscreant barbarian. "I'm sure you made a mistake," he told Dragonheart. "That must be her horse."

"Exactly!" Etira agreed quickly. "That's my horse...had her for years."

"See?" Edward smiled. "So the Lizard must have decided not to come."

"Well," the shopkeeper scoffed, "whatever she decided, I want my advance back!"

The valet grimaced, but said only, "I see. Well then, I guess we must have made a mistake. We'll be going now."

"Quite right," Etira agreed. "Strangers are nothing but trouble for Hackdirt."

The two men left the store and, stepping into the night air, Edward breathed a sigh of relief. All of his fears had been for naught. It was bad enough that his servant had dragged him up here for no reason, chasing a foolish Lizard who had taken it into her head to disappear for gods knew what reason; but he was glad to have the idea of barbarians engaging in human sacrifice put clean out of his mind.


	96. Chapter 96

Trust not what you know,

Nor dismiss that which you do not.

Fear not that which is unknown,

Nor fall into comfort with the familiar.

-- An excerpt from a piece translated in the scholarly work "_Writings of Old, Dead People_"

Chapter Ninety-Six

Having rented a dingy room from Vlanholder Moslin -- another Imperial, Edward was delighted to note -- the two men set about making ready for sleep. At least, that's what Edward assumed they were doing. It is easy, therefore, to imagine his surprise when he saw his servant arranging a bag of thievery tools, and sharpening the blade of a sharp little silver dagger.

Blinking in utter astonishment, he demanded, "What in Uriel Septim's name are you doing?!"

Dragonheart frowned at him. "Keep your voice down, sir," he whispered. "I'm getting ready to find Dar-Ma, and I'm not about to take chances." About to exclaim in exasperation at his servant's foolishness, Edward was silenced by a warning look from the other man. "I know for a fact that Itira lied to us. That is Dar-Ma's horse," he continued. "She raised the thing from a foal, and adores it. I could recognize it anywhere. So, Itira is clearly hiding something."

Edward blinked. "But surely...why would she?"

"I don't know, and that's what scares me. Dar-Ma's not the type of girl to make enemies, and -- while she worships the thing -- Blossom's hardly the sort of horse that someone would murder a person over." His brow was creased in thought, and his eyes bore a worried expression. "I'm not sure, sir, but something strange is going on. I'm going to sneak out, and have a look for myself."

Despite wanting to dismiss his servant's suppositions as hogwash, Edward felt a cold fear toying with him. Somehow -- perhaps it was Dragonheart's earnest concern -- he felt very alarmed. "Well...what am I supposed to do?" he wondered. "Just stay here and get murdered, while you go playing the hero for some Lizard?"

The valet frowned at him. "No sir. Just go to sleep."

"Go to sleep?" Edward gasped.

"That's right," the valet nodded. "That way they won't know I'm gone." Shrugging, he explained, "You snore loud enough for half a dozen men, nevermind two."

Edward glared at him, and watched with furious eyes as his servant opened a rear window a crack, then more, and, finally slipped through it into the black of evening.

Shivering as the night air creeping into the room assailed his body, Edward glanced about in frighten. Of all the predicaments he'd been into, surely this was the most insane, he thought. To think that he, Edward the Imperial, was left alone, shivering and frightened in a dusty, dimly lit bedroom that seemed alive with its own creaking and murmurs. "_And all for some...some lizard!_" This thought burning into his mind, Edward inwardly vowed revenge against his treacherous servant. This, he declared inwardly, was one indignity too many! He could not tolerate such mistreatment.

Suddenly, he started. He could have sworn that he heard a whispered laugh outside of his room. "He...hello?" he stammered.

This time, there was no doubt in his mind that he heard scurrying footsteps recede down the hall. The Imperial gulped fearfully, and turned instinctively to his valet for protection...except that the other man was gone.

Listening in silence as the footsteps and whispers returned, terror seized Edward. His mind seemed paralyzed by fright, and his senses slipped into a terror-induced, sleep-like lethargy. For it all, he could yet see and hear; but his mind seemed enveloped in a comforting, distancing mist; in fact, his entire body seemed enveloped in a mist of some sort. Still, cold, grasping fear seized his heart, seeming as real to him as if the icy fingers of death itself took hold of his organs. In the back of his mind, he wondered if the mist that seeped into his room from underneath the threshold might be laced with some sort of sleep-inducing drug...but his senses were too burdened to take note of the thought, and he slipped quietly into a heavy slumber.


	97. Chapter 97

Fools and friends

Friends of fools,

Fools for friends,

Drink to one, drink to all!

-- _On Friendship and Life_, by the Inebriated Odist

Chapter Ninety-Seven

When he awoke, Edward realized that he was no longer in the dusty inn surrounded by a peculiar haze; nor did his head feel light and disconnected from his body. Instead, his head throbbed mercilessly, to the point that he wished it was, indeed, somehow severed from the rest of him if only to spare him the agony. As for the rest -- where he was, why, and how he'd gotten there, the evidence of his eyes and reeling senses was so confusing that he found himself utterly discombobulated.

"Poor fellow!" the low hiss of an Argnonian roused him.

Jumping, he turned to see a young Argonian woman staring at him with concerned eyes. "Who...who are you? Where am I? How did I get here?" he demanded, his voice wavering with fear and confusion, and not at all sounding intimidating as he'd hoped.

"Don't be afraid," she whispered in gravelly tones, glancing up and down the apparently subterranean grotto in which they were enclosed. "It's just the effect of the drug...it disorients one."

He blinked. "Drug?"

"Yes," she answered, "they used it on me, too. Before I realized it, it was too late...I just remember the fog -- although I suppose it must have been a smoke of some sort -- and then losing consciousness."

This sounded vaguely familiar to Edward, so he nodded.

"I know your head hurts now, but it will clear up soon."

Edward grimaced. He hoped she was right, because, at the moment, the pain was so great that he was ready to pull it off to save himself the suffering.

"They said you had come to save me?" she continued. "I'm so sorry. I never expected this...and I guess you must not have either."

Finally, the unrealness of his situation hit him full force. Perhaps it was the slight lessening of the agony in his head that gave reign to the faculties of reason. "Who is 'they'? And how did you know how I came here?"

"The people here, the Moslins and Natch Pinder and Marlena Brussiner and all of them," the Argonian explained. "They drugged us, and brought us to these caverns or tunnels or whatever they are."

Edward glanced about him. Yes, they were certainly in a subterranean chamber of some sort. "Why?"

"Because..." She shuddered. "They plan to sacrifice us."

With a whimper of alarm, Edward fell backwards, once more lapsing into unconsciousness.

When he'd woken from his faint, a good fifteen minutes or so later, the Argonian was watching him. The sight of her strange eyes made him shiver anew. "_Oh gods_!" he appealed inwardly. "_Please, this can't be happening! You can't let me, Edward the Imperial, spend my last moments of life locked in a cage with this barbarian Lizard, awaiting death at the hands of a pack of lunatics!_"

"You ok?" the Argonian's voice interrupted his fretful prayer.

Her voice, for all the frightening 'lizard' aspects of it, somehow comforted him. At least, barbarian though she was, she wasn't trying to kill him. He nodded slowly.

"I am Dar-Ma, by the way," she continued. "Those men, they said that you came here to rescue me? You and your friend?"

Edward nodded glumly, an overwhelming urge to cry coming upon him. "_This all could have been avoided,_" he thought, "_if only that stupid servant hadn't taken it into his head to play Knight in shining armor to a filthy Lizard!_"

"I'm sorry that they caught you," she told him. "I know my mother must be so worried...and now they've ensnared you." She shuddered. "I heard them talking...they said that they're going to find your friend, and then..."

"Then?"

"They're going to...to kill us all tonight."

Edward joined her in shuddering, but he took some small comfort in the fact that his servant was at least destined to share in his unthinkable fate.


	98. Chapter 98

A good friend is like a good wine.

Wine will make one's heart bold;

A friend can save you from the firing line;

And, if all else fails, both can be exchanged for gold.

_-- _ Excerpt from _On Friendship, Wine and Slavers_, by the Inebriated Odist

Chapter Ninety-Eight

Dragonheart had watched from a distance as men swarmed into Edward's room, grabbed his limp body, and dragged him out of the room. Waiting for the drugged smoke to clear, he slipped back into his room without a sound. "_It's silent as a tomb in here_," he thought, and then frowned. That really was a silly saying, seeing as how most of the tombs in Tamriel were teeming with the undead – and so not at all quiet, unless one were to discount the rattles of bones, chinking of armor, wheezing calls of ghosts, and whatnot. Then, he shook his head. Hanging around with Edward, it seemed to him, really did things to one's brain, as his internal monologue demonstrated. Focusing on the task at hand, however, he crept toward the door and listened intently; not a thing. Then he opened it, and, finding the staircase thus deserted, crept downstairs. Moslin was nowhere to be seen, nor were the half-clothed men who'd swarmed Edward's room.

The valet frowned. He had seen no one enter or leave the inn; and yet there was no one about.

Realizing that there must be a secret passage or room of some sort, he quickly set about trying to find it. His task proved easier than he hoped, however, when he found a trapdoor behind Moslin's counter. It was locked, but the lock proved inconsequential when introduced to his thieving skills.

Soon he was climbing down a rickety ladder into a poorly lit subterranean chamber. There was no one in sight, so he proceeded to the end. The chamber was large, and stretched into various cavernous openings here and there. Choosing one direction at random, but taking note of where he'd come from all the same, he headed deeper into the bowels of the underground.

Nearing an opening into a new chamber, he froze suddenly. The low rumble of an Argonian voice met his ears, and then the higher pitched tones of his friend. Smiling, he drew his dagger. He had located his friends, but he had no idea who or what else awaited him. Clearly the men who'd kidnapped Edward and Dar-Ma had sinister intentions, no doubt in line with the rumors that surrounded this hellish little town. He was one to prefer non-violent solutions, but he'd seen in the Moslins' eyes that there was no hope of that here.

Creeping into the cavern, Dragonheart was relieved to see only the Imperial and the Argonian, huddled together in a makeshift prison. "Sir!" he called quietly. "Dar-Ma!"

Edward leaped to his feet, positively gurgling and squeaking with delight, while Dar-Ma tried to shush him. Lifting a finger to his lips, the valet hurried over.

"Shh, sir!" he warned, falling at once to work on the lock that secured his friends' prison. "There's some very strange characters in this town...we've got to get out of here before they come back!"

Dar-Ma nodded excitedly. "Yes," she hissed, "the Brethren they call them. They live here in the caves. They are crazier than the rest of them."

"Are those the half-naked men that took Edward away?" Dragonheart wondered, his attention still focused on the lock.

"That's right," the Argonian answered.

Edward shuddered. "You mean...I was kidnapped by a bunch of half naked brothers?"

The valet nodded, but didn't take his eyes from the lock. "That's right...they carried you off after you lost consciousness."

Edward felt ill. He had always known how desirable he was, of course, but he had never imagined that his charm and good looks would end up getting him into a situation like that. "Surely...I mean, surely there are other people around," he gasped.

"No," Dar-Ma answered, "just us. No one ever comes here."

Edward shuddered again, although, in a warped way, it made sense to him. "_After all_," he thought, "_if their choice was me or her, it's no wonder that they chose me._" Still, the idea filled him with revulsion.

"They're absolute lunatics," Dar-Ma continued. "They read religious runes, and perform rituals involving some sort of hallucinogenic substance."

"Ye gods!" Edward gasped. "I've been violated by religious fanatics!"

Two sets of eyes glanced at him, and Dar-Ma said sympathetically, "Don't worry, my friend...I know it is painful to be confined and to face death, but our good friend is saving us."

By now, the lock was picked, and the valet ushered both prisoners out of their confinement. Once outside of his cage Edward said, "You mean...they kidnapped us only to kill us?"

"Of course," the Argonian answered. "They were planning to sacrifice us tonight! Something about the Deep Ones demanding blood..."

"_Only_ sacrifice us?" Edward repeated.

Dar-Ma nodded, to which the Imperial breathed a sigh of relief. It was bad enough to be killed by fanatics, so long as that danger was now passed, but his mind had taken him down another path entirely – and not a pleasant one at that.


	99. Chapter 99

When tales are sung of heroes bold,

When songs of mighty men retold,

When recounted glorious days of old,

Then his deeds indubitably extolled.

-- Tribute to a Hero

Chapter Ninety-Nine

Creeping through the sparsely lit chambers, the trio was retracing the valet's steps when a murmured laugh arrested their attention. Peering into the gloom that surrounded them, they at first saw nothing. But then three pallid, scantily clothed bodies emerged.

"The Brethren!" Dar-Ma gasped.

The three men charged at the sight of the escapees, and Dragonheart dashed out to meet them. Armed only with his dagger, he was somewhat outmatched by the weaponry of the others -- not to mention the numbers -- but he did not hesitate. Only when he was near to them did he notice the glazed-over look in the Brethren's eyes, and by then he was already engaged in mortal combat.

He could hear the Reptilian shrieking of Dar-Ma and the high-pitched wail of Edward behind him as a heavy mace flew at his skull. Stepping to the side, he planted his dagger between the arm and torso of his attacker, digging deep into the bare armpit. The Brother shrieked in agony and recoiled, just as a blade flew for Dragonheart's neck.

Quick footwork, a daring plunge forward and doubtless a helping of luck later, and another Brother was decommissioned. The final fighter, whose blows he'd only so far deflected, lunged forward heedlessly. Dragonheart grimaced as, despite his moving, a dagger cut through his side; but he grabbed the man's attacking arm in a lock. A heavy snapping sound preceded more agonized shrieking by only a moment, and the third of the Brethren retreated, his arm hanging limp at his side.

"Come on!" he called. "Up the ladder!"

Edward wasted no time, and was the first to emerge in Moslin's inn. Dar-Ma followed, and then Dragonheart. They rose, however, only to find themselves surrounded by the townsfolk -- in whose eyes there was not the peculiar hazy glaze that had so marked the expressions of the Brethren.

"There's no escape," Vlanholder told them sneeringly. "The Deep Ones thirst, and your blood must answer, must quench them!"

"Look here," the valet answered, and his tone sounded very authoritative and imperious despite the blood dripping from the wound in his side, "I'm going to give you one chance, and one chance only. I'll overlook your plans to murder my friends for now, and let the Legion deal with your villainy. But you had better stand aside without an instant's delay, do you hear?"

"The Legion?" Itera laughed. "They already burned our town to the ground. Not a second time, thank you very much!"

"You're making a mistake," the valet warned. "People in Chorrol know we were coming here. If we disappear, they'll send the Legion eventually."

"By then," a man wielding a mace declared, "the Deep Ones will have emerged, and it will be too late for you."

The valet's face hardened. "I'm going to give you one last chance," he told them. "Stand aside, and face the justice of the law, or I will have no choice but to bury every last one of you."

There were a few exchanged glances at this inexplicable bravado, but no one flinched.

"Very well," Dragonheart nodded, readying his dagger. "You've been warned."

What followed was a scene that might well have been drawn from the annals of most revered history, from the myths of mighty heroes and great deeds. For, at the end of a long, furious battle, there remained three living, and all the rest dead. These three were Dar-Ma, who hid in the far corner of the room, Edward, who cowered behind her, and Dragonheart, who, breathing haggardly from the fight, surveyed the scene. The residents of Hackdirt lay here and there, their swords, maces and other weapons beside them unstained with the crimson liquid that adorned the valet's dagger.

"You...you killed them!" Edward gasped, as amazed as he was relieved.

The other man nodded slowly. "I'm afraid they left me no choice, sir," he said; and gone was the authoritative air he'd used on the townsfolk, and in its place was the meek one that Edward knew so well.


	100. Chapter 100

Barbarians, one and all,

Barbarians, they must fall,

Barbarians, intellects so small,

Barbarians, nauseate and appall.

-- _Barbarians_, a poem penned by Edward

Chapter One Hundred

Tears of joy abounded as Dar-Ma safely re-entered her mother's home, and even Edward's stony heart could not suppress a gentle pull at the touching scene -- barbarians though they were. Then the valet and Dar-Ma had gone -- practically dragging Edward along as a witness -- to make a full report of what had occurred to the authorities, who promised to send a contingent to round up the "Brethren". Finally, Dragonheart had stopped at the local chapel, where the priests tended his wounds.

This done, Edward and his servant vacated Chorrol, heading for the Imperial City in search of their Emperor, Matthieus. The trek was an easy one, and they made good time. Even Edward's horse seemed cooperative on the journey, and all spirits were high as they reached the City. The valet, his mind full of noble ideas of heroism and adventure, and Edward, his thoughts running along a more sinister and murderous route, were happy to be so near the object of their searching, their long lost Emperor.

Both men passed the Imperial Guards at the entrance of the city with a cheerful nod, and Edward couldn't help but envision his entrance -- some day soon, he hoped -- as Emperor, after the great Dragon had set him up to rule Tamriel.

Dragonheart knew exactly where to find his friend, and so headed directly for the Green Emperor Way. Therein he found a tall, stately stone home, and knocked at the door. "Matthieus found work in the employ of Mr. and Mrs. Ebeneezer Smolet."

Edward frowned.

"They're a Breton family, living here in the Imperial City...they import goods from all over, and sell them to local merchants. Matthieus worked as a sort of secretary for Mr. Smolet."

Edward's frown increased, but it wasn't for the reason that his valet thought; his expression had naught whatever to do with the fact that the Smolets were Breton "barbarians". Instead, some distant thought was playing in the back of his mind. Something -- he couldn't put his finger on it -- was wrong with this.

"They're very respectable people, sir," the valet was continuing, "so please be polite to them."

Edward shot him a withering glance, and tried to ignore the obscured cogitation that was taking place in his head. He hated it when his mind did that to him -- distracting him with meditative thinking, rather than allowing him to focus on the moment. He was here, at the doorstep of his emperor, about to fulfill his duty to the great Marooned Dragon, and his foolish mind was thinking and worrying and distracting him!

"Sir?" his valet asked, interrupting his thoughts.

Edward started, realizing suddenly that a very annoyed expression had crossed his face. "Oh, right."

The door opened a moment later, and a tall woman appeared. She was, Edward was loathe to admit, a very beautiful woman, despite her barbarian lineage. Her hair was dark and full, and fastened behind her in an attractive manner; her features were refined and pretty, and her eyes were a brilliant blue-green, and full of keen intelligence. She glanced first at Dragonheart, and then threw an appraising look over Edward. Apparently, she was not pleased with what she saw, for she wrinkled her nose in distaste. Turning back to the valet, she asked, "Can I help you, sir?"

"Yes ma'am," he answered. "I am looking for a friend of mine, Matthieus." He smiled, adding, "Sometimes called Matthieus the Nord." Edward shuddered at this, but the woman's eyes opened wide.

"Matthieus?" she repeated. "You haven't heard, then?"

"Heard?" Dragonheart repeated.

"Yes. Matthieus is dead."

A gasp escaped the lips of both men, although for different reasons. For his own part, Edward was cursing his ill fortune that someone had beaten him to the kill -- and the gratitude of the Dragon. The valet, however, seemed genuinely affected. "Dead? But...how?"

"He was overseeing a shipment from Bruma," the woman answered, "and bandits attacked. They killed everyone, including Matthieus."

There were tears in the woman's eyes as she spoke, and a break in Dragonheart's voice as he returned, "Bandits? Did they ever find them?"

The girl shook her head, answering, "No...they disappeared into the mountains, and the Bruma guard could not find them. It was at the onset of last winter, and the snow had just begun to fall, so they didn't pursue the matter further."

Edward sighed, lost in his own selfish thoughts. How was he going to explain this to the Mythic Dawn? Would he still get a reward? He had tracked the Emperor down after all, hadn't he, so surely that merited a reward of some sort?

Dragonheart, however, spoke with a voice laden with grief. "But...but surely there were clues?"

"Yes," the girl answered. "There were clues." She paused. "You were a friend of his, you say?"

"Yes ma'am. We studied together at Weynon Priory."

The girl's eyes lit up. "Oh, you must the friend who worked for the elf...what was his name?"

"Lord Umbacano."

"That's right! Matthieus mentioned you many times. He feared that some harm had befallen you, because you vanished so suddenly." She stared at him quizzically.

He shook his head. "No ma'am, no harm...I just...well, I lost my job, and I was...well, ashamed."

Her blue-green eyes softened, and she opened the door and stood aside. "Come in," she told them.


	101. Chapter 101

Tremors of death,

A final gasping, ill-fated breath,

Whispers of demise,

A final retribution, and he dies.

-- A line from the popular play _The Bloody Murder of He Who Was Murdered in a Most Bloody Fashion by a Cold-Blooded Murderer_

Chapter one Hundred and One

The sun was low in the sky when Edward and his servant stepped out of the Smolets' home. The girl -- Felicity -- was the daughter of Mr. and Mrs. Smolet, and had been engaged to Matthieus when the bandits murdered him; she and Dragonheart had spent the entire day pouring over the details of what they'd learnt of his death, and reminiscing about the time they'd spent with the Nord. The valet had not mentioned his royal lineage -- at this point, it was not necessary; but he had vowed to do everything he could to see that the murderers of Felicity's fiance and his friend came to justice.

Edward had sighed and shuffled and grimaced and groaned the entire time, but the two had ignored him. At last Ebeneezer and Matilda -- Felicity's parents -- had returned home from their business. Edward was pretending to sleep on a divan when they arrived, as he had no interest in meeting yet more barbarians; but, even through closed eyelids and ears as tuned out as he could get them, he could not but feel the warmth with which his servant was welcomed. This made him feel quite ill, and he couldn't help but feel what little respect he'd had for the man slipping away. Eventually his boredom had slipped into genuine sleep; and he'd been awakened only when it was time to leave. The family had tried to insist that they remain for dinner, but Dragonheart would not impose upon their hospitality; so, dragging a hungry, bleary-eyed Edward back onto the streets with him, he departed.

Edward was peevish and annoyed as they walked, but his valet was quiet and thoughtful. At length, ignoring Edward's cantankerous rambling entirely, he said, "We're going to have to tell Friar Jauffre about this, sir."

Edward flinched.

"He'll want to know," the other man continued.

"Well," Edward lied, "this is true, but...well, I've got very important business to attend first."

"Oh?"

Edward was prepared for this question, and shot back immediately, "Well, I've got to let the Brotherhood know about Motierre, don't I?"

The valet frowned. "I would think Jauffre's business supersedes..."

"No, no," Edward interrupted. "After all, Matthieus is dead, right? So, is he going to get any deader or less dead by Jauffre knowing?" The other man still seemed unconvinced, so Edward plowed onward, "If anything, the longer we wait the better...that way the poor man's body will be decomposed past the point that Jauffre will find him worth decorating his yard with." He ignored his valet's shocked expression at his irreverent words, and chuckled to himself; there was something downright amusing in the idea of an Emperor's head adorning one's lawn. Not a regular head, of course...that was just...well, vile. But an Emperor's head? The sheer magnitude of the statement that such an adornment would make seemed to lessen, nay, disperse, the vileness associated with the act to his mind.

"Well," the valet mused, "I don't know if..."

"And the Brotherhood has to know as soon as they can about that little...accident. Who knows what fall-out there might be!"

The other man nodded, saying, "I see what you're saying...and I have to say, sir, you're handling this very bravely...manning up to take responsibility for your own actions."

Edward glared at the other man. It had nothing whatever to do with taking responsibility for his own actions...his only concern was facing a homicidal priest with an affinity for accenting his yard decor with severed heads. The longer he could put off facing Friar Jauffre again -- forever, if he could help it -- the better; not even Vicente Valtieri and his bizarre threats of cannibalizing him frightened him as much much as the mad monk of Weynon Priory. For that matter, the entire Dark Brotherhood didn't frighten him as much as Jauffre.

"Well sir," the valet said, his tone uncommonly flat and depressed, "once we rent rooms, I think I'm going to take the evening off, if it's all the same with you."

Edward frowned at the other man, but, seeing as he had no real reason to keep him around acquiesced. Indeed, there was a shop in the City that he wanted to visit without his servant's presence; so, he said, "Very well." Of course, had he known what his servant intended to do, he never would have uttered those fateful words.


	102. Chapter 102

Murder Most Foul!

It is with no lack of courage that our correspondent writes to tell us of the latest development in Cheydinhal, for he speaks to us of the workings of the mysterious world of underground crime. Recent revelations from that town tell us that a man in the employ of the Imperial Legion – a "snitch", in the vernacular of the law – was murdered in front of the very eyes of his loyal servant – who was himself, our informant tells us, lucky that he too was not felled by the killer. The guard has been excessively obdurate in the face of our requests for information, so at present I fear we have nothing else to report. We will, as always, hasten to inform the public if any new information presents itself to us.

-- Black Horse Courier, Special News Bulletin

Chapter One Hundred and Two

Edward pulled a cloak closer about his body. He was headed to the shanty town on the Waterfront to follow up on a rumor. There was, it was said, a magician of sorts, a dark sorcerer from the Black Marshes, who had taken up residence in one of the abandoned shacks. His days, it was whispered, were spent roaming the country finding exotic alchemic ingredients; and his nights in blending and selling the rarest potions and charms. Some said that he was a sorcerer of the forbidden magics, who captured souls and bound them to items and elixirs to imbue the recipient with various qualities. Others whispered that he would produce curses and work spells for a cost. Some spoke of a trade in souls. And others laughed at the notion of this 'magician' and his spells, charms and curses, calling him a fraud and a charlatan.

As far as things sat with him, Edward was one part unruffled skeptic, and one part superstitious zealot. He had seen and he feared enough to make him a quivering believer; and yet he done and aspired to do so much that he hoped his beliefs were wrong -- except, of course, for the one in the great Dragon. Tonight, however, he was relying on the trusting portion of his mind, and putting aside the doubting part. He was heading to the lair of the Brotherhood, after all, and that meant one thing -- Marie Antionetta.

Shuffling his way through the crowds of dock-hands, vagabonds and lower-class shopmen and women, Edward felt downright nervous. He knew that this area was rife with pickpockets and cutthroats during the day; he dreaded to think how many of these low-lives infested the waterfront after dark. And yet, he would not abandon his purpose. So, pushing on steadily, he arrived in the shanty-town some little time later. Approaching a man dressed so poorly that he must surely be a beggar or pauper, he asked, "Excuse me, _peasant_."

He tried to keep the disdain from his voice, but, alas, he was less than successful. The other man looked up at this greeting, and returned, "Yes, your high and mightiness?"

While a discerning ear might have taken offense at the other man's tone, Edward smiled to himself that this man, low-life that he was, acknowledged his obvious superiority. "I'm searching for someone," he told the other man. "A...a shopkeeper of sorts. His name is Mist-Scales."

"Ah!" the beggar nodded, and a twinkle appeared in his eyes. "Well then, he's right over there." He pointed to an old, decrepit shack.

With a nod that was as pompous as it was appreciative, Edward passed the other man and stepped toward the shack. The beggar watched him, grinning and shaking his head; but the Imperial took no notice. Instead, arriving at the run-down little building, he knocked.

All was silent for a moment, but then a low hiss answered, "Come in!"

Edward pushed the door opened, and stepped into a single room dwelling, as frightful looking inside as it was on the outside. It was moderately lit, but the torches burned so deep and crimson that it seemed it was not the light of fire, but some strange thing that illuminated the room.

"You are looking for Mist-Scales?" the same hissing voice that had bid him enter inquired.

Edward looked to the speaker, who was a tall Argonian, bare-chested to reveal ample, gruesome tattoos on crimson scales, but also wearing a cape and hood that covered much of his face. Only two gleaming orbs, and a mouth full of large, white teeth were clearly visible beneath the fabric. The Imperial gulped. This Argonian seemed to embody all of the fears and prejudices he held about the barbarians and beast folk; and, in that instant, the skeptic in him was put to death. "Oh, great magician!" Edward breathed. "You must help me!"

"Magician?" the Argonian repeated, and his tone took on a questioning aspect. "Mist-Scales does not like this word. It is a construct of the limited mind, the mind that says 'magic' when one calls up the forces of the earth, 'devilry' when one summons the powers of the elements. No, no, 'magic' is a fool's concept. Mist-Scales is but a student of the world, and all of its powers; one who channels the unseen forces as well as the seen. If this is what you seek, noble traveler, then Mist-Scales is the one to whom you must speak."

Edward was at once mystified and entranced. The Argonian's way with words, his fervent belief, touched a chord deep within his soul; and yet, for the life of him, he couldn't figure out whether he was speaking about himself or some other creature. "I...I am seeking him."

"Ahhh," the Argonian hissed, nodding. "Such is a man that I will do business with, then." He smiled broadly, revealing a mouth full of long, sharp teeth.

Edward nodded, feeling now convinced that this must indeed be Mist-Scales. "Good."

"Now, let Mist-Scales take a look at you," the Argonian continued, advancing. He stared very intently into Edward's eyes, and the Imperial flinched under his scrutiny. Then he walked thrice around him in one direction, and thrice in the other. The combination of the other man's deep, guttural breathing, the strange flickering torchlight, and his own superstitious apprehensions were almost too much for Edward, who had to fight very hard to remain standing in place. At last, however, the hooded magician came round and stared him in the eye. "Mist-Scales sees sadness - yes! Loneliness, yes, loneliness."

Edward's expression, growing more shocked by the moment, confirmed his words.

"Someone who needs his help, yes!" the Argnonian continued, throwing his cloak back to reveal even more tattoos on a well-chiseled chest. "Now, tell Mist-Scales if he is not correct?"

"You...you are!" Edward whispered, fighting with his voice to make any sounds at all.

"Ahh...and my little friend is surprised," the Argonian sighed, shaking his head. "He comes to Mist-Scales, and wonders that he can see through the mists. Now, speak...pour out your heart, and let Mist-Scales listen. Then we will talk."

He wasn't sure how or why, but Edward found the words rushing off of his tongue in great waves. He told of his troubles with Antionetta, his rivalry with Vicente, and his trials at the hands of his servant. Through it all, the Argonian remained silent, watching him keenly.

When, at last, he came to a rambling halt, the other spoke. "Now Mist-Scales sees. The mist is drawn away from his eyes, and all is clear. The moon speaks to me, the sun whispers, and I see your path, Imperial."

Edward watched, transfixed, as the Argonian gestured him toward a little shelf laid out with vials of liquid and handfuls of trinkets.

Mist-Scales poured over his inventory, chanting and whispering and hissing in distracted tones that only further convinced Edward of his magical prowess. "Ahhh!" he exclaimed at last. Edward started at the suddenness of the proclamation. "Here he is." The Argonian retrieved a small bottle of deep green liquid. "And here." Then, he retrieved a strange black amulet. "These are what he needs."

Edward reached forward to take the trinkets that the other handed him, and he was surprised to feel a swirling energy flow through his hand as he did so.

The Argonian smiled at his expression. "He understands, he believes, yes?" he asked. Edward nodded acquiescence. "These -- this he must wear," the other continued, pointing to the amulet. "And this-" pointing to the elixir "-this he must drink."

"When?"

"When he goes to see his lady that so disturbs his heart," the Argonian answered. "Yes, then."

Smiling broadly, Edward gladly paid the sum requested of him -- which emptied his purse entirely, even after Seed-Neeus' generous rewards -- and stole away from the shop with a glad heart. Finally, with the aid of these items, he would woo Antionetta!


	103. Chapter 103

Murder Most Fowl!

It is with no lack of appetite that our correspondent writes to tell us of the latest developments, for he speaks through a mouthful of tender, baked chicken. Recent revelations from his cook tell us that a chicken – "dinner", in the vernacular of the carnivore – was butchered in his very yard, in front of the duck – who was himself lucky to escape the ax.

-- _The Garlic_ (satirical news courier)_, Special News Bulletin _

Chapter One Hundred and Three

Edward was not at all surprised when he returned and saw that his servant was nowhere to be found. "_No doubt_," he thought, "_the fool is out getting sloshed because some pretentious Nord mongrel aspiring to be an Imperial ended up meeting his end. Well, if only he took the whole lot of barbarians with him._" He paused from thought. "_Except the Shaman, of course. I might need him again, especially when I become Emperor._"

He pulled his newly found treasures out of a pocket, and gazed at them appreciatively. He had no idea what magic the Argonian wizard had used, but he didn't doubt its potency for a moment. The man had reeked of dark power, of the sorts of underworld magical abilities that the more powerful barbarians surely possessed; and he felt certain that now, finally, his difficulties with Antionetta were at an end. No more shyness, no more avoiding his gaze, no more refusing to speak to him; she'd be so overwhelmed with passion that she couldn't contain herself. He smiled, and felt his anxiety at telling the Brotherhood of his latest abysmal failure slipping away. "_Who cares about Motierre_," he thought, "_when Antionetta's about to be mine!_" These happy thoughts playing in his mind, he drifted smilingly into sleep.

For the most part, his rest was full of pleasant dreams. He envisioned himself striding into the Brotherhood headquarters proudly, wearing a set of shining silver armor. He had, he noted with surprised pleasure, gained a considerable bulk of muscle. "_Probably from wearing all of this armor_," he thought. Even his features had filled out and hardened a little, exchanging the soft, baby-faced look, for a slightly more warrior-like appearance. "_But_," he noted, "_a sophisticated warrior...not like one of the legion grunts or barbarian Nords._"

Edward the warrior-philosopher strode with a firm, unflinching step as he entered the sanctuary. Envious glances from the men of the Brotherhood abounded; Vicente in particular took his newly found maturity and impressiveness awry, gaping as his pale cheeks glowed a greenish hue. Ocheeva stared, open-mouthed, too, and while the predatory look in her eye matched Vicente's, their respective reasons were clearly different.

While Vicente champed his long, white teeth together in a rage-filled passion, Ocheeva hastened to Edward's side. He'd not even mentioned the incident with Motierre yet, when she said, "Oh, my dear Edward! Do come in!" Edward nodded as she ushered him to a more secluded area. Throngs of Brotherhood watched him pass with envious eyes, scrutinizing every feature of his now dashing face, every detail of his new armor, every angle of his newly chiseled torso; but he took no note of them. "You know, Edward," Ocheeva was saying, in her hissing way, "your talents have been underrepresented here. I am thinking of putting in a good word for you with the Black Hand."

"The Black Hand?" he asked, his brow wrinkling in concentration. He'd heard the name before, but couldn't place it."

Yes," she continued, apparently missing the question in his voice. "You deserve better than these paltry assignments you've been getting here. You are a man of greatness, a knight, a champion, a killer unparallelled."

Smiling in a conceited fashion even in his dream, Edward smirked. "Well, I just do what I can to the best of my abilities," he answered, "and it just so happens that my abilities are...well, unparallelled, as you put it."

"Yes, yes!" she hissed excitedly. "I will speak to Lucien myself for you, my dearest Edward."

Wrinkling his nose at this appellation rolling off the forked tongue of a Lizard barbarian, he froze as footsteps sounded behind him.

Ocheeva glanced up, and he turned about, in time to see Antionetta make an entrance that could only be described as astounding. Dressed in crimson silk, her hair pinned with jewels in an extravagant, but oh-so-breathtaking, manner, she seemed to glide or sail rather than actually walk. He could feel the trembling of his heart in his dream, the strange, wavering sensation that overpowered his reason whenever he caught sight of her. But she left him no opportunity to put his foot in his mouth this time. Rushing over to him, rebellious wisps of hair breaking free of the larger mass with her hurried motion, she threw her arms around him.

"Edward! Oh Edward!" she implored, looking up into his eyes. "I can't do this anymore! I can't keep pretending I don't see you or hear you! You have to know how much I care about you?"

There were tears glistening in her blue eyes as she spoke. Edward, for his part, was struggling with the quavering sensation in his soul, and trying to respond in some fashion. He wanted to be cool, distant, noncommittal in his response; but the words, if he could find the strength to speak them, would not be stopped.

He was saved from this agonizing decision, however, by the enraged shriek of a Breton voice. Glancing over Antionetta, he saw the flashing red eyes of Vicente. All at once, he was a fearless warrior; throwing his body in front of hers, he drew the long, silver sword that hung at his side.

"You'll never take her!" the Breton screamed, drawing a dagger. "She's mine, Imperial churl!"

Despite the superiority of his own weapon, Edward found himself squirming as Vicente's eyes caught his, and he saw the hell-fire that those red orbs emitted. Still, however, he did not panic for a moment; instead, he threw himself into combat fearlessly, and, with but a single stroke, the Breton was felled.

"Oh!" Antionetta's voice came to his ears, in an admiring murmur. "My hero!"

Turning, ready once and for all to take her in his arms and confess his love, Edward started in horror. In the place – indeed, in the gown and jewels and make-up -- of the beautiful girl he loved, there stood a little Bosmer with a strange, ice-cream shaped poof atop his head. "Ah!" the Imperial cried, jumping backwards.

"Oh, you're the greatest!" the little Bosmer declared, his eyes glistening with admiration. "You saved me!"

"No!" Edward shook his head. "Not you! Antionetta!" His perplexity was too great for words as his eyes roamed the Sanctuary for his lady fair.

"You're the greatest Champion a fan could ever wish for," the elf continued, taking no heed whatever of his words. "I can't tell you how happy I am at the prospect of being with you!"

Edward backed up, a sick sensation coming to him. This wasn't right! He was supposed to spend the rest of his life with Antionetta. What was this disgusting little elf, his bright hair and pallid skin a ghastly contrast to the rouge and lipstick and sparkling jewels he wore, talking about?

"I'll go with you wherever you go, and follow you and worship you and love you," the Bosmer continued, apparently oblivious to his horror.

Shaking his head, Edward threw appealing looks about him; but the Brethren were stepping away, as if turning their backs on his plight. "Go away!" he yelled. All at once, he was no longer the confident knight that he had been upon entering the sanctuary, but rather the same cringing, baby-faced youth he was in real life.

His transformation, however, apparently made no difference to the elf, who began to follow as he retreated. Finally, spinning about and breaking into a full run, Edward loosed a yell of terror. The giggling, prattling apparition behind him, however, followed closely. The elf's words tumbled out nonstop, sweeping over him like a cascade.

"Antionetta!" Edward called. "Antionetta!" Suddenly, he was aware of a sharp movement, and everything disappeared into darkness. Blinking into the relative oblivion, the Imperial realized after a moment that he was awake and sitting up in bed, trembling and sweating profusely. Relief swarmed him at the realization, and he laughed out loud -- although it was a skittish laugh -- at his foolishness. Of course there were no Bosmer phantoms, no grotesque misrepresentations of his love interest, and no reason for alarm. He was set to head to the Dark Brotherhood sanctuary, where he would surely ignite the passion of Antionetta; and his servant's adoring fan was just one of many unpleasant memories.

This conclusion drawn, Edward sat in the darkness for several moments simply to compose his nerves after his fright. At last, however, the phantoms of dreamland were chased from his mind, and he was ready to return to sleep. One can, therefore, imagine the dismay with which his ears picked up the sound -- this time, no apparition's voice -- of, "Oh, you really are the greatest, my Champion!"


	104. Chapter 104

Thoughts to think,

Teetering on the brink,

Cares to sink,

It's time to drink.

-- _Time to Drink_, by the Inebriated Odist

Chapter One Hundred and Four

Gasping and turning paler than even the ghastly Vicente Valtieri of his recent dream, Edward stared into the blackness.

"Hush!" he heard a whispered voice. "I told you, I have to speak with Master Edward before he knows you're here."

"Oh, never worry, my Champion!" the all-too-familiar voice returned. "I am here just to follow you!"

"Yes, well, please do it quietly," the first voice -- unmistakably, his valet's -- rejoined. "I warned you about chattering around him. He hates it."

"Oh yes," the fan answered, "quite, quite! Have no fear. It was kind of you to rent me a room, but you know that I would gladly have slept on a bedroll at your feet, or on a cot, or anywhere that you would have preferred, like a squire of old serving his knight -- just so long as I could be in your presence."

"I prefer this," the whispered voice answered. "Now -- I'm serious -- not another word! Get to bed, and don't wake Edward up. I'll talk with him first thing in the morning, and then we'll settle this."

"Yes, my champion! Anything that you say, my champion!"

Edward grimaced. Not even the amazement and horror he felt at the fan's sudden reemergence, and his servant's complicity in his appearance, could suppress or override the annoyance the Bosmer induced in him. There were few people in the world that could affect him so negatively, but the mere sound of the elf's voice grated on his nerves and set his features twitching in frustration. Growling, he dragged himself out of bed and headed toward his door.

Opening it just in time to hear another door close, Edward emerged into the upper story of his inn in only his night clothes. He didn't, however, care. His eyes instantly sought the miscreant servant and his companion, but found only the former. "You!" he demanded.

His servant, who was busily unlocking his own bedroom door, started. Glancing up, he flushed very guiltily. "Oh...sir...we didn't...wake you up, did we?"

Edward's furious glare was answer enough. "Did I...tell me I didn't! Hear that demon-spawn fan of yours!"

The valet shifted in place. "Well, sir," he said, "if you mean..."

"That vile little Bosmer!" Edward hissed.

"Well, I'm afraid sir that you did hear him."

Edward gaped. "What? Why? How could you?!" he sputtered.

"Well sir," the valet reminded him, "you will recall that it was you who promised on my behalf that I would find him when next I visited the Imperial city...so I was duty bound to do so."

Edward stared at him uncomprehendingly. The idea that anyone would subject themselves – and, more importantly, him – to the temperamental whims of a whiny, persistent devil like the Bosmer for any reason at all seemed so incomprehensible that he was, oddly, bereft of words.

Apparently taking his silence as acquiescence, the valet continued, "You see, sir, this poor kid doesn't really have a family of his own...his parents died years ago, and he lives with an aunt." He shifted, as though choosing his words tactfully. "And she's not...well, not very good with kids, sir. She has no patience for him. So I thought it would be a wonderful idea for him to come with us – you know, to sort of be an understudy of yours. So that he could learn the tricks of adventuring." He shrugged, as Edward was still to flabbergasted to speak. "I thought that change of pace would be good for him...remove him the city and the arena, shake him out of his indolence, get him out into the world, doing something positive."

Finally finding his voice, Edward managed to choke out, "I'll give him something to do...dig your grave, because I'm going to kill you!!" This said, he lunged for his valet.


	105. Chapter 105

Impudence and calumny,

Baseness and the worst villainy,

Fiendishness and treachery,

What woes the master must face.

-- _Treatise on the Base Nature of the Serving Class_, by the learned Count Wimpleton

Chapter One Hundred and Five

It had taken everyone residing at the inn, and an Imperial Guard as well, to pull Edward off of his valet. Even then, he'd broken two noses, proven himself immune to the calming spell of a powerful mage staying at the inn, and screamed out every curse imaginable in the shrillest tones before he was hoisted off of the other man.

In turn, it had taken some convincing, but, eventually – after offering sufficient compensation for the injured noses of the two, and the injured pride of the mage – Dragonheart had been able to soothe the tempers of all involved, and thereby keep the still seething Edward out of jail.

When the Imperial had finally been released, he was trembling with rage, his fists clenched so tightly that his knuckles were white, and sputtering with indignant fury.

"Now, sir," the valet told him, "I need you to calm down. You can't go doing things like that – next time I may not be able to get you out of trouble so easily!" He frowned. "And I might have hurt you myself in self defense." Edward's glare grew more intense. "I understand that you are upset, but you really must work at expressing your frustration in a more mature and positive manner."

By this point, Edward was ready to lunge again; but the little yellow-topped head of his servant's fan poked out of its room just in time to distract him.

"Master," he said, glancing toward Dragonheart, "I know you told me to stay in my room...but I heard all the commotion, and I thought that my Champion might be in harm's way, and I thought that I could not leave him here without help; and then I thought that you are _the_ Champion, and need no one's help. But then I supposed that it might be of comfort to you all the same to know that I was there, willing to risk anything, even death itself if necessary, to aid you. And then I thought perhaps you would be better pleased if I stayed in my room as you directed. But then..."

Edward's eyes were bulging with sheer fury, and the valet cut in quickly, "Yes, yes, I understand completely. Thank you for checking, but I'm fine. Go back to sleep."

But the little Bosmer stood in place, surveying his Champion and the furious Imperial. "So he-" he said, jerking a thumb in no greatly respectful manner in Edward's direction, "-already knows I'm here, right? So then I can follow you, yes?"

"No. Go back to your room."

"But Grand Champion," the Bosmer protested, "surely-"

The continued provocation was too much for Edward, who lunged at the little elf. Catching sight of the Imperial's movements, the Bosmer withdrew quickly, slamming and locking his door just before Edward reached him.

Colliding heavily with the iron-braced wooden door, Edward stumbled backwards, feeling blood trickling from a fresh wound on his lip. Catching sight of the murder in his eyes, the valet hastily enjoined, "Now, sir, remember what I told you about handling frustration in a mature fashion."


	106. Chapter 106

Beware a servant bearing gifts.

-- Maxim of the Master

Chapter One Hundred and Six

After Edward awoke, there had been no sleep that night. Meanwhile, like a loyal dog deprived of his master, the adoring fan had remained cloistered in his room, moping and protesting to the air around him; and Edward and Dragonheart had engaged in heated argument – heated, on Edward's side, and calm and reasoning but unmoving on the other man's side. Finally, their quarreling had upset so many other patrons of the inn that they'd been threatened with being ousted; then and only then had they gone to their respective rooms, with the promise to revisit the topic in the morning.

Dragonheart, upon entering his own chambers, began to draw up a plan of action, thinking out the many arguments he would use to convince his friend – and also how he would make his fan immediately useful to Edward, and so, perhaps, sway him to his side. For his own part, Edward immediately fell to fevered prayer, begging the mighty Marooned Dragon to, once and for all, rid him of his froward servant.

So the hours passed for the three men in their respective ways – whiny pouting, earnest activity, and malicious prayer. Dressing in fresh clothes, Dragonheart was out of his room with the sun; when he found that the fan, too, was already risen, he took this as an indication that his intentions of turning the youngster into a hardy adventurer were likely to meet with success. The two then quickly absented themselves from the premises.

Half an hour later, Edward, tired of praying and eager to learn if his supplications had achieved their purpose, was readying to leave his room when there sounded a knock at his door. "Come in," he called.

The valet entered, his manner as proper as it ever was, bearing a tray overflowing with foods of a most delicious variety. "Good morning, sir!" he greeted, bringing the tray to the table. "I ordered the house specialty for you this morning sir, as I thought you might like a full meal before setting out for Cheydinhal."

Edward frowned. He was by no means prepared to make amends with his intractable domestic; but the peace offering the other man bore was delightfully tempting, and he was wretchedly hungry.

"The waffles and strawberries are particularly good," Dragonheart told him, setting the tray down. "But it's all beyond compare."

His nose twitched with interest and, though he fought the sensation, he was undeniably drawn to the delicious smells that assailed his nostrils. Finally, casting a glance at the foods set before him, his resistance was a lost cause, and he fell at once to eating, and with gusto.

The hint of a smile played with the corners of Dragonheart's mouth, but his tone was unchanged as he spoke, "And I had them brew you a fresh pot of coffee, sir. I know how much you love good coffee."

Edward nodded eagerly, murmuring some acquiescence through a mouthful of food, and reaching for the cup before the other man had even set it down.

What ensued was a masterpiece of gluttony, with Edward "sampling" half a dozen full breakfasts; and when he had done "sampling", there was not a full breakfast-sized portion between all the scraps. By time the devouring Imperial had risen from his exorbitant feast, his servant was waiting for him. The accouterments of travel were stacked neatly and set aside at the ready.

"Very good sir. Now then, we'll just head to the stables, and be on our way."

He moved with such haste and eagerness that Edward, stuffed to the point of veritable immobility as he was, pulled back. "Hold on," he said, "what about that filthy little Bosmer?"

"No worries, sir," the valet told him with a nod of his head. "I took care of that."

Edward frowned mistrustfully at the other man, but hastened to follow after him, as he knew he'd better move swiftly if he'd any hope at all of keeping up after such a meal as he'd just downed.


	107. Chapter 107

It is said "beware the servant bearing gifts";

I say "beware the servant offering praise".

For silver-tongues conceal the very worst

Of that lowly caste we call "servants".

-- _Treatise on the Base Nature of the Serving Class_, by the learned Count Wimpleton (excerpt)

Chapter One Hundred and Seven

The two Imperials reached the stables a good hour later – which was an excessive time for such a short jaunt. Still, Edward was sweating and panting heavily.

"I believe, sir," the valet told him, "you might have overindulged this morning."

Edward glared at him. "Whose fault is that?" he demanded. "Was it me that ordered a dozen breakfasts?"

"_Half_ a dozen, sir," the other man corrected, a twinkle in his eye. "But that didn't mean that you had to eat them all."

Edward was about to fire back with some vehement denial of his own complicity in his overeating, when another voice arrested his attention.

"Alright, my Champion, all is as you said it should be!"

Edward gaped as the little Bosmer appeared, as if out of nowhere, from behind the stables. "But...you said...?" he demanded of the valet, his eyes flashing with anger and betrayal.

"That's right sir. I did take care of it. Docada and I have had a good long talk, and we've agreed that he's not going to do any of the things that annoy you."

"Like breathing?" Edward growled.

"No sir. Like talking endlessly, and not obeying what he's told, and things like that. Isn't that right, Docada?"

"Of course, my Champion. Whatever you say, it will be done to the utmost of my abilities, for I am your worshiping slave," the Bosmer eagerly answered.

Dragonheart cleared his throat. "Yes, thank you." Seeing Edward's still furious expression, however, he hastened to add, "And, you see, Docada has used his own inheritance to purchase you a brand new horse – seeing as how you despise yours so much. Look here!" This said, he advanced to a pleasant-enough seeming paint horse. "You see? Just to show you how eager he is to make amends and accompany you he has bought this horse for you!"

Edward frowned at this gesture of goodwill. Half of his mind suspected that it was some devious trick, no doubt a scheme of his servant's; but the other half argued that the foolish little elf, worthless imp though he was, could not help but to eventually realize his magnificence and worth -- and see how much greater it was than his lowly servant's.

"We both know how much there is to learn from you," the servant continued, "and he is eager to accompany you, to be your protégé. Isn't that right, Docada?"

"Umm...yes, exactly," the little elf managed.

"You see?"

Edward frowned in thought. He didn't like the idea...no matter what, the elf still infuriated him...but all the same, it was assuaging to hear the Bosmer's misplaced praise redirected in a more appropriate vein. "Well..." he contemplated, "I suppose I _might_ consider it." The idea of his own feats being endlessly praised was far more appealing than his hearing his servants' likewise praised. In fact, the elf's endless prattle lost much of the irksome qualities it had previously held when thought of in this light; and, though he wouldn't admit it aloud, he took some slight pleasure in seeing Docada's loyalties shift to him. "Alright," he decided at last. "You can come along...but you have to abide by the rules we've established."


	108. Chapter 108

Violence in the City!

This morning our correspondent informs us of an incident of significant violence in this very city on the evening previous. A row broke out, apparently, between two gentlemen staying in a local inn, which eventually developed into a full-fledged fight involving other patrons of the establishment. The incident ended with a number of bloodied noses and bruised faces, and it is our fervent hope that this incident is not indicative of the coming of a spree of violence such as other cities in our fair empire have been experiencing of late.

-- Black Horse Courier, Special News Bulletin

Chapter One Hundred and Eight

As Edward, with a bit more perception and forethought, might have guessed, the little elf had no intention whatever of abiding by any agreement; nor did he plan to worship Edward as he adored Dragonheart. His intentions were nothing more than convincing Edward to let him come, and spending his days worshiping his Champion. So the ride to Cheydinhal was a particularly grating one for Edward, as he was subjected to nonstop prattle, and in honor of his servant at that. Another factor that contributed to Edward's fury was his former horse; while the nag had treated him with absolutely no respect whatsoever, she seemed to take very well to the Bosmer, and was as compliant and agreeable as the best of horses under his direction.

So it was with a furious heart that Edward dismounted, bidding his servant and "protégé" to wait at the stables for him. Making sure he had his bag of trinkets from the Argonian Shaman, he trudged toward the Sanctuary. At last he reached the abandoned house, and slipped inside. Once in, he opened his treasure bag, and pulled out its sacred contents. The amulet he slipped round his neck, and was thrilled to feel a vibrant energy against his skin as he did so. Then he drew out the vial, and popped the top of it. The smell that assailed his nostrils was not terribly pleasant, but Edward's faith in its powers was only enhanced by the malodorous scent. Downing it one gulp, as much to save himself from tasting it as anything else, Edward nearly gagged. It was indeed a foul mixture, and he shuddered to think of what dark magic and terrible ingredients had gone into creating it. Shrugging this off, however, with the thought of how effective the potion must surely be to taste so terrible, he braced himself to enter the Sanctuary.

As in his dream, all eyes followed his progression; but they were not the envious glances he'd imagined, but rather a queer mixture of disgust, amusement and a touch of schadenfreude. Edward felt a shiver run up his spine, but continued on his way to Ocheeva.

The Argonian was waiting for him, and her flashing eyes made it clear that she was not happy. "Ahh!" she hissed. "The murderer returns."

Edward gulped. Apparently news of his accident with Motierre had already reached the Brotherhood. "You see," he began nervously, the manifold excuses he'd planned slipping from his mind just when he needed them most, "that wasn't my fault."

The Argonian's eyes grew to narrow slits, and she positively growled at him. "Do you have any idea what harm you've caused, fool?" she demanded.

"Ummm...no?" Edward answered.

"Then let me elucidate," she snarled. "We were tasked to save this man's life, and we not only failed, but we -- the Dark Brotherhood -- killed the very man we were supposed to protect!"

Edward shifted nervously. "Well," he stammered awkwardly, "in my defense, I didn't mean to kill him."

"Didn't mean to kill him?!" Ocheeva roared. "You drove a dagger through the man's heart! How could you _not_ mean to kill him?"

Edward felt his knees begin to quiver. "Well, you see...I thought that the dagger wouldn't hurt him...I mean, you told me that the antidote would bring him round..."

"Fool!" Ocheeva exploded. "Are you mocking me?!"

Edward stepped back in sheer amazement at this outburst. "No! Not at all," he hurriedly answered.

"Your stupidity has cost this group more than your primitive mind can fathom!" she continued. "Our reputation is forever tarnished, thanks to you."

Edward shifted again. "I wouldn't say '_forever_'," he offered. "People tend to forget things like that eventually, in a decade or so..."

Ocheeva's eyes flashed with fury, and Edward wisely fell silent. "And what's more," she snapped, "you killed someone who shouldn't have been killed, someone who was working with the law to bring down evil criminals!"

This time, Edward's defense was ready. "That's all well and good, but the fact of the matter is that Motierre was a low life, a fiend of the worst order. He deserved death as much as any of those blaggards – more, since he was a sell-out on top of everything else!"

Only the restraining hand of Vicente Valtiere, who had approached without Edward's noticing, prevented Ocheeva from lunging for the impudent Imperial and killing him with her bare hands.

"Come now, Ocheeva," the Breton spoke, his voice soothing. "Remember what I said earlier?"

Edward blinked in sheer amazement. He had never imagined the stuffy Breton coming to his aid, and yet, before his very eyes, he'd just saved his life."

"No!" Ocheeva snapped. "You know the Brotherhood rules expressly forbid killing -- including cannibalizing, or drinking the blood or whatever -- of one another."

"But you want him dead," Vicente protested. "You were about to do the deed yourself!"

Ocheeva blinked. "You have no proof of that," she hissed.

"Of course not," the Breton persisted. "I'm just asking for you to be reasonable."

The Argonian shook her head. "No," she answered. "It would be one thing if he...had a fall down a flight of stairs, or something like that...but I could never explain to Lucien how he ended up drained of his blood." Vicente pursed his lips into a pout. "I'm sorry, my friend, but you cannot kill family members."

"Then cast him out!" Vicente implored. "Then he won't be a family member -- and I can imbibe as I see fit."

Ocheeva seemed to consider this possibility for a few moments, as she fell to "Hmmms" and "Hrummms".

For his part, Edward had turned an ashen pale. "You...you can't be serious!" he gasped. "You...you wouldn't dare!"

The Argonian and Breton turned furious eyes to him, and he felt most uncomfortably convinced that they would, in fact, dare. An uncomfortable silence descended on the trio, with Edward too terrified to flee or protest further. At last, however, Ocheeva pronounced judgment. "As much as his recent behavior warrants it, it would not be right of us to kill him." Edward nodded hastily while Vicente groaned, and she continued. "If only for the sake of the camaraderie that we once had with him, and the service he has rendered in the past." Edward's nodding had reached a fevered point, and the Breton seemed ready to object. "However, his behavior is no less reprehensible for what he has done. Therefore I have no choice but to cast him -- you, Edward -- out of the Brotherhood."

Edward stared, thunderstruck. "Cast me out? But...but..don't I at least get another chance?"

"You?" Ocheeva hissed. "Do you think I'm mad enough to-" She stopped suddenly, letting out a sudden hiss of inspiration. The Breton made a similar sound at the same moment, and the eyes of the pair met. Edward felt inexplicably uncomfortable at their inspiration, but he remained silent. The Argonian turned her eyes back to him, and he noted with discomfort that they were now twinkling. "Very well," she spoke, and her tones were suddenly more amiable. "I suppose everyone deserves a second chance."

"Oh yes," Vicente put in, his tone as congenial as Ocheeva's. "Everyone."

Edward blinked in surprise. He was a bit confused, as their words and eyes seemed in such discord -- for the one spoke of sincere acquiescence, and the other bespoke sinister pleasure. "Well, definitely," he put in hesitantly.

"Then it is agreed," Ocheeva nodded. "I will speak to the Brotherhood, and see about preparing the re-initiation ritual."

Edward smiled broadly. Being kicked out was bad, but this made it seem more like a minor punishment, a sort of "slap on the wrist, grovel a little, show some penitence and all is forgotten" ordeal than anything else.

"Now go...of course, you will not be allowed back here unless you complete the ritual."

Edward nodded. "Never fear," he answered. I will do it." Ocheeva and Vicente smiled, and Edward frowned as a thought came to him. "How will I know when to perform the ritual? And what to do?"

"Don't worry," Ocheeva smiled. "When it is time, we will find you."

"Oh." Edward's eyes opened wide in surprise, and he couldn't help but appreciate their courtesy. He did understand, in some way, why they were forced to expel him; but it seemed that they were going out of their way to welcome him back. "That's very kind of you."

"Don't mention it," the Breton smirked. "Now go."

Edward nodded and turned; but then he froze. "Oh..." he started, "I don't suppose it's possible for me to see Antionetta before I go?"


	109. Chapter 109

Dark Brotherhood Ritual?

Our correspondent in Cheydinhal writes to tell us of a most unusual storm that gathered in the sky over the town. It was unusual for a number of reasons, but, most eye-catchingly, the darkness and intensity of the cloud cover, which covered the entire city but appeared to leave the land outside the walls free of its glowering presence. And, perhaps more interestingly, the storm came out of nowhere on a sunny afternoon, and disappeared within a minute. Many residents did not even see the cloud cover, it was so fleeting. This, a researcher from the Mages Guild tells us, is a sure sign of a magical influence on the weather, and is, she continues, mostly likely an indication of a Dark Brotherhood purification ritual. Many scoff that this ritual is nothing more than myth; however, myth would have us believe that just such a fleeting storm is the harbinger of the coming to this world of a Wraith of Sithis. Myth or not, it is our correspondent's assertion that this was a most fascinating storm, and indeed a rare treat for amateur meteorologists in the Cheydinhal area.

-- Black Horse Courier, Special News Bulletin

Chapter One Hundred and Nine

After being most rudely denied audience with fair Antionetta, Edward had skulked out of the Sanctuary. He was still grateful that Ocheeva and Vicente were willing to give him a second chance, but he couldn't help but feel aggravation that they had ousted him in the first place. Certainly, there was _some_ little justice in the act...but it hadn't _really_ been his fault, after all. It had been their foolish, misleading directions more than anything else that was responsible; and yet, he hadn't dared make too much of a scene, partly from fear of being cannibalized or bludgeoned, and partly from fear of being forever cut off from Antionetta.

Sighing in aggravation, and also due to an increasing intestinal discomfort, Edward headed toward the stables. He had wasted his potion for no reason; now he'd have to revisit the Shaman. But, first, he needed money -- and, since he'd lost his position in the Brotherhood for some indefinite period of time, he needed to find a new source of income.

The walk back to the stables was a slow one, as his stomach was playing cruel tricks on him, and the sensation was not conducive to hasty travel. By time he reached his valet and Docada, he was experiencing intense discomfort. His innards seemed to churn in a most disquieting fashion, and to groan and suffer of their own accord. He could feel a slick of cold sweat forming on his body, and could sense a chill in his extremities.

Dragonheart, on seeing his approach, exclaimed, "Sir! Are you well?"

Edward grunted in response. "Let's go," he declared. He couldn't explain it, but he felt frighteningly unwell; and his first instinct in the face of fear was flight.

"Sir, are you sure? You look terribly unwell. Maybe we should rest here awhile?"

Edward ignored him and reached for his horse, but mounting the beast proved a challenge. It seemed his legs had suddenly turned into weights of lead, for they refused to lift to the stirrups; and his arms had turned to mortflesh, for they refused to pull him into the saddle. Edward struggled, but a queasy feeling pressed hard upon his senses. Somewhere in the back of his mind he heard worried exclamations; but he was only aware of falling toward the earth as his faculties slipped into oblivion.

When he awoke several days later, he was lying in a bed in a windowless stone room. There were lit candles on a table nearby, and his servant, looking haggard and worn, in a seat nearby. "Sir!" he exclaimed. "You're awake!"

Edward opened his mouth to talk, but the words came out as a muted cough.

"Don't talk, sir," his servant warned, "Don't worry, you're in safe hands. You're in the chapel, and the healers have been hard at work on you."

Edward glanced about him again. "What...what happened?" he managed to croak. Divines, but his throat felt as dry as an Oblivion plane!

"That potion, sir -- the strange one I found in your pack. You must have drank it? It was a poison."

Edward blinked at him. "Poison?"

"Yes sir...it was a mixture of random plant parts, mostly harmless...but I detected a strong concentrate of Nirnroot in there."

Edward stared at him in wonder. "But...but the Shaman said..."

The valet frowned. "Shaman?"

"Yes...Mist-Scales."

Dragonheart grimaced. "Oh, sir...I've heard of that fellow. He's a low cheat. A conman pretending to be a great Argonian magician. He acquires all sorts of junk, and sells it for exorbitant prices, pretending it can do all sorts of things that it can't...cure diseases, enchant a lover, punish a foe..."

Edward flushed, which, in his weakened state, amounted to a slight pinkish glow. "But...my amulet?"

"Just a trinket sir, with a minor enchantment...it's meant to dispel rats." Edward stared, his eyes open wide in astonishment. "It was probably stolen, or acquired at a pawn shop or something, and resold to you under false pretenses." He paused. "At least...you didn't _buy_ it to frighten away rats, did you, sir?"

Edward shook his head, feeling very ill-used indeed. "You are sure?"

"Oh yes sir. And the real problem is that he has no idea about the things he's selling...you're not the first one he's sold tainted goods to." He frowned deeply. "When I was in the City, I heard that the Guild -- the Thieves Guild, I mean -- is going to get rid of him."

Edward nodded. As humiliating as it was that he'd been played a fool, he took comfort in knowing that the Gray Fox planned to avenge him. "He deserves to die, after this," he agreed in a shaky, croaking voice.

"I didn't mean kill him," the valet replied. "We know he's not deliberately poisoning people...he just blends things that he finds, and pretends they're imbued with magical properties. He's a swindler, but he doesn't deliberately cause injury. The guild is going to devise some way to scare him out of the city."

Edward frowned. "You should kill him!" he wheezed. "That will get rid of him for good."

"Yes sir," the valet nodded, "but a man doesn't deserve to die for being a crook, does he?"

Edward glared feebly at his servant, but he had not the strength to continue arguing. "Where's that elf?" he asked at length. "I don't see him poking his vile head in here."

The valet shook his head. "No sir. Docada is employed elsewhere."

Edward frowned again, and then closed his eyes. Soon he had drifted into a sleep in which he dreamt of returning to the Imperial City, hunting down Mist-Scales, and stealing one of his potions to feed to the elf.


	110. Chapter 110

A true friend's heart is purer than gold,

And its workings a joy to behold.

A fairweather friend's heart is fickle as the wind,

And whats given it will not hesitate to rescind.

-- _On Friendship, Continued Musings_

Chapter One Hundred and Ten

Edward's recovery was a long, slow process, but, eventually, he was returned to good health. The Cheydinhal mages and priests were very kind, offering their assistance whenever they could, and saying that they had not seen such a severe case of Nirnroot poisoning in all of their days. Mist-Scales had, it was speculated, stolen the extract from an assassin, or an alchemist who supplied assassins, and -- not knowing the significance of the substance -- mixed it with his various "potions". Edward still held that the Thieves Guild should murder the "barbarian poisoner", but he seemed to find little support for his idea in his servant.

The only point in which Edward did not find joy in his recovery was the fact that Docada had made a reemergence as soon as his strength was returning. He imagined that Dragonheart had given the elf strict orders to absent himself while the sickness was severe, but had allowed him to return after the worst was over. At times, when the elf's adulation for Dragonheart grew to be too sickening to stomach, Edward found himself wishing for a relapse, so, at least, he'd be saved listening to the nauseating sycophancy. No relapse came, however, and Edward survived the unceasing approbation, as well as his illness.

So it was that the trio was eventually ready to depart Cheydinhal. Edward, too thankful to be alive and able to get about without difficulty, was for the most part ignoring his servant's fan. Dragonheart, too, was ignoring the prattling elf, for he seemed lost in thought. At last, however, as they passed out of the city, he said, "Sir, I've been thinking about what we should do next."

Edward frowned. There really wasn't much for him to do, was there? He still hadn't heard from the Brotherhood, and did not dare return until they sought him out; he would like to return to the Imperial City and avenge his poisoning, but he felt he could not fare well against the barbarian Shaman; and he had heard nothing from the Mythic Dawn, and had no idea of how to contact them. Of course, his final option was to return to Friar Jauffre and relate the news of Matthieus' death, but he'd prefer to fight the Shaman and the Brotherhood at once before embarking upon that route.

"I think," the valet continued, "that we should head back to Weynon Priory." Edward cringed. "And I think we should tell Friar Jauffre about...well, you know." The valet glanced behind him at the elf -- who still had not been made privy to all of the men's adventures -- but was relieved to note that he was paying no attention whatever to what was being said, as he was lost in his own platitudes.

"Well," Edward began, his mind racing for an excuse -- any excuse. "Maybe we should...well, I mean...surely you don't think..."

"I know what you're thinking," the valet nodded. "You're not looking forward to Friar Jauffre's reaction. Neither am I, to tell you the truth. However, I've thought of a good way to...well, soften the sting."

"Surely it would be better to _avoid_ the sting?"

Dragonheart shook his head. "No sir. Honesty is the best policy, and Jauffre has a right to know the truth. So, what I think we should do is this: tell him the news, but then tell him that we're going to hunt the Emperor's murderers down, and bring them to justice."

Edward frowned, not because he disliked the plan, but because he was amazed that his valet, with all his high-minded ideals, would stoop to lying to a madman -- even if it was likely to save his life.

"Well," he agreed slowly, "I suppose we could say that."

"Yes sir," the valet nodded. "When we were in the Imperial City -- you remember the night I took off? That was not just to find Docada." Edward cringed again. "It was actually quite the busy night. You remember I had to find the fellow who sold me that house in Anvil? I tracked him down, but I also paid a visit to the Imperial Legion, and learned what I could about Matthieus' murder. The Bruma guard had sent down all the information they had, and the Legion had a file on the incident -- and the killers. Turns out they're rather a notorious gang of mountain bandits. They don't strike often, but they always prey on under-defended or undefended caravans and travelers. They probably struck Matthieus' group because he was the only man there who could put up any real resistance; the others were merchants and minders of the animals and whatnot."

Edward frowned. He really wasn't interested in these details, and so wondered why his servant felt it necessary to share them with him.

"Well sir, I got enough information on them so that I think we can track them down," Dragonheart was continuing. "In fact, the Legionnaires I spoke with seemed very happy to share what they knew, and indicated that this group has been a problem for awhile now, but, with resources stretched so thin, they weren't able to deal with it." He shrugged. "I do believe, sir, they were hinting that I could try my hand at taking care of them."

Edward's frown deepened. "You don't...you're not seriously suggesting that _we_ kill the bandits?" he asked, so amazed that he had difficulty finding words to convey his thoughts.

"Of course."

"Us?"

"Exactly."

"But...but...but we don't know where they are! We don't know how many of them there are! We don't know how skilled they are! We don't know...anything!"

"On the contrary, sir," Dragonheart corrected, "the legion gave me all of that information. We know that there are about a dozen of them, and that they're rather brutish fighters -- clubs, maces, axes -- but very good at their weapons of choice. They're strong, mostly Nords, and utterly ruthless. They're not phased by the cold or the mountain terrain, so they like to prey on those who are -- travelers and pilgrims from warmer climates. We know that they are lightly armored, wearing leathers and furs that keep them warm, offer some protection, and allow them to move quickly. We also know that they have a weakness for shipments of alcohol -- these are almost always attacked, unless heavily protected." He nodded triumphantly as Edward stared agape. "And _that_, sir, is how we're going to get them. Because we are going to just be three harmless merchants from the Imperial city, importing wines and ales and beers to Bruma; they will undoubtedly attack us, thinking they'll be able to cut through us without a problem." He smiled as he finished, as if the brilliance of the plan left nothing else to be said.

"But...but...they will, you fool!"


	111. Chapter 111

The trees are barren of leaves,

Their fruits have fallen and decay,

Wind cuts through their branches

For winter has called and reigns.

-- Excerpt form _The Forest_

Chapter One Hundred and Eleven

It was a long way to Weynon Priory, but the trip seemed to be taking forever to Edward. He was tired of arguing with his valet, who -- for gods knew what reason -- was stubbornly refusing to budge from his foolish idea of avenging the barbarian Emperor's death. Meanwhile, he was about ready to strangle Docada, who somehow never managed to tire of talking. "If only," he thought, "we could somehow harness the power of that creature's vocal cords...nothing would be undoable then."

He had managed to sleep, but not terribly well -- he never did, when he wasn't in a comfortable bed -- and had found with annoyance that his valet insisted on staying awake whilst he slept. He'd indicated that the reason had something to do with the Dark Brotherhood, and Edward's expunging from it, but he'd said little beyond that.

It greatly irked Edward that his servant was able to sleep so little, and yet continue to function, whilst he felt at death's door despite his sleep. "Damned fool is always showing off," he thought with a peevish sigh. "But not tonight." Aloud, however, he said, "Alright then, tonight it's my turn to sit the watch."

Dragonheart's eyes opened wide in astonishment. "You, sir?"

Edward frowned at him. "Of course me! I'm just as capable as you to sit watch."

"Well, yes sir," the valet hesitated, "but surely..."

Edward's frown deepened. "Don't patronize me, servant! You and that-" He paused to indicate the elf with a dismissive gesture. "_That_ are to sleep whilst I guard."

"I don't think that's a good idea, sir. You're still recovering-"

Edward glared at the other man. "That's an order!" he shouted, his voice shrill and peevish. "Now go to sleep."

Seeing that protestations were futile, as Edward was in a particularly unreasonable mood, Dragonheart nodded slowly. "Very well, sir...if you're sure."

"Positive."

So, nothing more was said on the subject, and Docada and Dragonheart spread their respective bedrolls round the fire and settled in for sleep. Edward watched them with a sense of victorious pride, congratulating himself on how effectively he'd taken the wind out of his servant's sails. "_It'll be hard for him to act so high-and-mighty in that faux-unpretentious manner of his when I'm on guard duty as easily as he is -- and me the master, and recovering from life-threatening illness at that, and him the lowly servant._" He stopped short of adding "paid to protect his master," as, at least in his domestic's case, such was not true. So, these thoughts playing happily in the back of his mind, Edward stared into the night with a smug smile.

Eventually, the smile dropped into expressionless weariness; his lids drooped, and his muscles relaxed. The fire danced and sang in a quiet, soothing manner, and sleep flitted about the outer limits of consciousness seductively, beckoning, calling for him. He blinked once, slowly; and then again, more slowly; and finally a third time, from whence there was no slow opening of his lids. Instead, his head drooped, and his breathing lulled into a quiet rhythm. Sleep had come.

It was a strange coincidence that his sleep was more relaxing and fuller now, when he was supposed to be on guard duty, than when he had actually had the right to indulge; but it was a fact, nonetheless. Edward found himself in a deep, full, relaxing and revitalizing sleep, and so it was with great indignation that he was roused by a shout and a heavy impact.

While his first sensation had been fury at being so rudely awakened, his next was an inexplicable agony. A freezing surge seemed to be cutting through him, driving a wedge of ice between his arm and the rest of his body. Screaming aloud in sheer terror, Edward lurched to his feet and stumbled backwards. It was then that his eyes caught site of _it_.

It was a strange creature, pallid, translucent, and luminous. An aura of bluish green light surrounded the thing, and it seemed to float on a mist of its own making rather than walk.

As frightening as the sight of it was, however, this was nothing in comparison to the sound of its voice. "Edward the Imperial," it spoke, its voice as cold and musical as the shattering of a thousand shards of ice or glass.

Edward shrieked anew at that sound, for it seemed to pierce his brain and renew the agony in his arm tenfold.

"I come on behalf of the Dark Brotherhood, a wraith in the service of the Dread Father. You have chosen to fight me in order to restore your place amongst the brethren. Come now, and fight. Defeat me, and you are restored; lose, and your soul takes my place, as an avenger of the Brotherhood."

Edward's only response was to loose a third wail of terror, almost as frightening in its own right as the wraith's had been. He could do nothing else, however, for his legs seemed to have turned to stone underneath him. The wraith advanced, wielding a spectral blade in one hand.


	112. Chapter 112

In days gone by, men looked to a great Wheel of Fortune…

Though now we scoff, they wrote of a fickle wheel that would lift up and cast down men…

Upon which, for no reason, a man may be made or broken…

And true it must be, for how else can this rotter be saved again and again?

-- From the personal notes of Historian Valerius, written during his participation in the _Chronicle of the Oblivion Crisis_ project

Chapter One Hundred and Twelve

Docada and Dragonheart had both been roused by Edward's horrible shrieking; in an instant, the latter was on his feet, drawing his silver blade. This was exactly what he'd feared. Edward's story about the re-initiation ritual had recalled memories from long ago, the tales of childhood; at the time, it had been said as nothing more than a fascinating myth, like the existence of the Brotherhood itself. But he knew now that that was true...and so, he saw too well, was the story of the Wraith of Sithis.

The Wraith was a creature, a being who had transgressed its duty to the Dread Father; and for so doing, it was condemned to serve Sithis in death as a dark, avenging angel. When it had carried out justice, it was free to go to peace. Sithis would only send the wraiths after the most wayward brethren, and they would duel until death. If the Wraith lost, he returned as a minion to his master; and if the outcast lost, his soul became the Dread Father's prize, whilst the Wraith at whose hands he'd fallen was set free.

Like most otherworldly things, the Wraiths were supposed to be killable as long as one used a silver blade. So the valet prayed that the myth was true in this regard, and charged forward to protect his friend. For his part, Edward was still screeching loudly, a panicked look on his face and his arms flailing feebly at his sides.

Dragonheart leaped between master and Wraith, his blade catching the spectral blade of the creature. He heard a new voice join in the shrieking somewhere behind him, and realized that Docada must have given into screaming as well; but he was too focused on the fight to pay any heed.

Meanwhile, as the valet battled the Wraith, Edward and Docada were indeed screaming in a most panicked and unreasoning manner. Edward had only just found his legs, and only just managed to scurry away from the site of combat. He was now beside the elf, who, like him, was shrieking at the top of his lungs and waving his arms about in a desperate but futile reaction. They watched as the blades of man and creature met, as silver and steel flashed against the stuff of the netherworld. They saw the Wraith beat back the Champion, and then the Champion drive the Wraith back. They heard the battle cry of Dragonheart, and the roar of his challenger. All this they saw and heard, but neither could find the courage or willpower to move to assist. Instead, they remained fixed in place, lost in a terrified stupor, a senseless state of fear.

It was fortunate for them, then, that the single party of their band who had the fortitude to fight was as skilled as he was brave; for, as the elf and Imperial continued to watch amidst their own squeals of terror, Dragonheart lunged forward, driving the silver point of his blade through the wraith's heart.

The creature let out a hellish scream of agony, and all at once the mist surrounding it began to fade. In an instant, the creature too had vanished into no more than a glowing pile of dust. The fight had been long and tiring, but Dragonheart had prevailed.

Edward, exhausted beyond his strength by the sheer force of his terror and relief at his rescue, collapsed to the ground.


	113. Chapter 113

Running from danger,

Fleeing from harm,

Hiding in shadows,

Lurking in darkness.

-- Song of Edward, Verse Eight

Chapter One Hundred and Thirteen

They were still embarked upon their journey to Weynon Priory, but Edward was hard at work attempting to convince his servant that they should head back with all haste to the Cheydinhal Sanctuary, now that he had completed his re-initiation ritual. The fact that he had not completed anything, except an admirable bout of screaming and fainting, mattered not to the Imperial; the Wraith was dead, and that was that. He had the scar to prove where the horrible creature had hit him, and – thanks to his valet's presence and possession of a healing potion – nothing more. That was good enough, by his reckoning.

For his part, Dragonheart had been willing to accept, no matter how tenuously, that Edward had not been screaming and panicking, but rather fighting and attempting to frighten off a spriggan that had appeared out of nowhere, perhaps attracted by the sound of the fight. This belief was no doubt encouraged by the fact that Docada had likewise sworn that it was the truth, although that claim too was suspect in his mind as a result of the high-pitched elven squeals he'd overheard whilst fighting. But, no matter how willing he was to let that matter slide, he refused the notion that running away from their duty was the right thing to do.

"No sir," the valet was saying at that very moment, "Jauffre has a right to know."

"Yes, yes, of course he does," Edward agreed. "But my first duty is to the Brotherhood. Now that I am re-initiated, I must go back!"

"Your first duty is to the Emperor," Dragonheart corrected. "And his death must be reported to the proper person – Jauffre."

"But...but surely..."

At this point, Docada interrupted, speaking in a tone that was low but still audible to Edward's ears. "My champion, perhaps you _should_ send him back to Cheydinhal."

"Why?"

"Well, because if they were going to send that terrible creature after him, maybe they'll try again! And, if you're not there to protect him..."

Dragonheart frowned. "That's not funny, Docada."

The elf blinked in astonishment, and his expression made clear that he was not attempting to be amusing. "Oh, umm, no, of course not, sir," he hastened to agree.

He pulled back discreetly on his reins however, so that his horse was alongside of Edward's. The Imperial, having heard every word, was seething when he addressed him in a hushed tone. "Personally, I agree with _you_, Master Edward. You do have a duty to your friends in Cheydinhal. The Champion is wrong to keep you from it. You should go anyway, and we can take care of your business with Jauffre."

Gurgling with rage, Edward was about to let loose a barrage of profanity and threats, when suddenly he stopped. "_That's it!_" he thought. Aloud, he spoke, "Your little elf has a good point." Docada hastened to interrupt and protest, but Edward overrode him. "I have a duty to the Brotherhood. You may feel you have to go to Jauffre, and I won't stop you doing that. But _I _must go to Cheydinhal."

The valet sighed. "I know what you're thinking, sir. But I assure you that it won't work." Edward sputtered out an indignant denial of any plotting on his part, but the other man continued. "Jauffre tasked you with this...if you don't report back, particularly if you send someone else in your stead, he will suspect you have something to hide, and hunt you down like a goblin."

Edward shuddered. From the little he knew of Jauffre, this seemed an accurate enough claim.

"Trust me, sir, he will make you rue the day you were born."

Edward gulped. They would be at the Priory in a day or two, and even that proximity was far too much for him. "Well...well, you said that you went to study with him?"

"Yes, of course."

"Then...then surely you should tell! I mean, you know him, and he understands you more than me."

The valet shook his head hastily. "That's a very bad idea, sir."

Edward frowned deeply, cursing the other man's blasted cowardice. "Look here, you've got a duty to your Emperor!"

"I will be there sir, of course...but I think it's better if he saw you first, and you broke the news to him. You see, Friar Juaffre doesn't...well, doesn't think terribly well of me."

"Oh?"

"No sir...he always thought I was..." The valet flushed. "A disappointment, sir. Not soldierly enough."

Edward's frown increased. "But surely that wouldn't influence him..." He stopped. Even _he_ knew how ridiculous that was.

"No sir...best way is for you to do it."

"But...but...but what if he..." Visions of Jauffre lopping his head off with an abnormally large ax or cleaver filled his mind, and he shuddered.

"Don't worry, sir. I'll be there to back you up, if it should become necessary. I'll just stay out of sight."


	114. Chapter 114

Fool, oh a thousand times, fool!

Through your ineptitude and bungling,

Depriving the empire of just rule

Whilst you stumble blindly, to what end?

-- Song of Edward, Verse Nine

Chapter One Hundred and Fourteen

The trio had been traveling in glum silence for some time now. The sun was setting in the west, and the sky glowed beautiful hues of red and gold. No one, however, seemed to take note. Edward was busily searching his mind for a means of escaping Friar Jauffre, and meeting no success. As to what the others were contemplating, the occasional disdainful glance in Edward's direction indicated pretty well what Docada was thinking; and the occasional melancholy sigh might have suggested, to a mind more perceptive than Edward's, that his valet was relishing the return to his old mentor no more than he.

However, Edward, being so absorbed in his own thoughts as he was, was even less likely than usual to take note of what others were thinking or feeling. Unfortunately for him, the entire party was apparently as consumed by their own thoughts as he was by his, for, all at once and with no warning, his horse reared, and he flew from its back to the earth. He'd only vaguely been aware of a whizzing or zipping sound, but, picking himself up in time to see his horse crash to the earth, realized what it must have been: an arrow. This realization came with a jarring pain that racked his entire body.

At the same time as he came to that deduction, he heard his valet exclaim, "Bandits!" and Docada loose a shriek of terror.

His eyes flew from his paint horse to a dozen mounted men, who seemed to spring up from the hillocks themselves, all wearing crimson robes and hoods. For a moment, the sight of their drawn weapons threw him; but then he placed the newcomers. "The Mythic Dawn!" he gasped, an expression of joy replacing the one of mortification and terror.

"Edward the Imperial!" one robed figure called out, advancing on horseback.

Edward picked himself up quickly, brushing off the dust and dirt that had accumulated on his clothes. "Sir!" he called out. He was a bit embarrassed by his current state, and couldn't quite understand what had just happened. But, the closest that he came was that bandits had been attacking him and his companions when the Mythic Dawn intervened on his behalf.

"Sir!" Dragonheart called out, reaching for his own sword.

Edward smiled, both smugly and reassuringly at once. _This _was one situation that his servant would have to rely on _him_ to get out of safely. "It's alright," he said, "they're friends of mine."

The hooded rider surveyed both of Edward's companions, starting with the elf and finishing with Dragonheart. "Who are these?" he asked, turning to Edward.

"My companions," Edward responded. "I should say, my _servant_ and his apprentice."

The Mythic Dawn agent was silent for a spell, and Edward tried to ignore the questions that his mind kept throwing at him. "_Why are they here?_" "_Why doesn't he speak?_" "_If he has something he can't say in front of the servants, why not speak with me in private?_" "_Why are his men still bearing their weapons?_"

"So then," the agent spoke at last, "it is true."

"Yes," Edward agreed, glad to break the uncomfortable silence despite not knowing what, exactly, he was agreeing to. "At least, I think it is."

"You have betrayed us then."

"Yes," Edward nodded again hastily. Then, balking as the import of the words sunk in, he recoiled. "Betrayed? No! What are you talking about? I have never betrayed you!"

"Then why have you not killed the Emperor?"

"Well...he...he was already dead!" Edward explained, his mind whirling. Why, he wondered, was it that all the people he met with were totally unreasonable? Jauffre wanted him to save dead Emperors, the Mythic Dawn wanted him to kill dead Emperors, the Brotherhood wanted him to resurrect the dead, and his servant wanted him to save the world.

The agent's eyes seemed to flash from underneath his hood. "So that is the game you think to play...you have signed your own death warrant, then, traitor."

Edward blinked in amazement. The man was speaking in riddles – and deadly serious riddles at that. "No!" he gasped. "You don't...I didn't...wait!"

But the Mythic Dawn agent had no intention of waiting. Instead, he issued a command – "Kill them, all. Now!" – and prodded his horse forward, heading straight for Edward.


	115. Chapter 115

Perhaps I was wrong in opposing Mehrunes Dagon;

Better may it have been to join forces with him

So that now my kingdom's fate would not rest in the hands

Of an oaf of the worst sort, subject to his whim.

-- Musings of the Ninth

Chapter One Hundred and Fifteen

Edward was barely able to escape the thunderous hooves of the charging horse, and the murderous swipe of the rider's blade, by running and ducking low as the agent rode for him. He still had absolutely no idea of what had caused the Mythic Dawn to betray him, but, at this point, finding out was hardly a priority. He was intent on staying alive, for whatever seconds he had left in life.

As it was, he knew this was not – could not be – many. After all, he was surrounded by a dozen or so professional killers, all intent on butchering him. What hope was there, then, for survival, past the few seconds that he had already eluded death?

This view, however, did not take into account his companions. He had not, for instance, counted on Docada falling to shrieking and, in the same pattern that was himself employing, instantaneous flight. He did not count on the elf's horse, guided by the panicked hand of her inexperienced master, twisting about and charging headlong into another rider. He did not foresee this rider's horse rearing at this unexpected onslaught, and throwing the rider from his back.

No more did he envision that, whilst Docada was inadvertently cracking the skull of one opponent on the cobblestone road, Dragonheart leaped into action, heading first for the archer who had felled Edward's horse. The archer shot once, but the Imperial rode low, just above the neck of his horse; and, in the time it took the archer to draw another projectile, he was within striking distance. So ended the second opponent.

Edward, meanwhile, was running about wildly, trying hard to avoid riders and disappear into the confusion. He was failing on both counts, however, as his increased activity only drew the eyes of the agents toward him; and, just as he was ducking underneath a blow that surely would have felled him, he felt a heavy body impact with his. The next thing he knew, he was flying through the air headfirst, and then landing heavily.

After that, the world went black for a spell; and, when his eyes opened again, they opened to see the bruised face of his valet, and the pointy hair of his elven companion. Both men, were, in fact, staring down over him. Edward loosed a scream, certain that all three had died, and that this – being in the power of these two oafs – was his eternal torment for all the sins and crimes he'd committed.

"Sir!" the valet greeted, recoiling to avoid the flailing arms. "It's ok! We fought them off!"

The elf, who was not so quick as Dragonheart had been, cursed aloud as Edward's hand impacted sharply with his nose.

"You mean...we're alive?" Edward asked, attempting to rise. Searing pain shot through him at this movement, and the valet hastened to fetch a small pink vial.

"Don't move, sir. Not until you've had this."

Edward frowned. "A healing potion?"

"Yes sir. You hurt your back and neck with that last fall. Here, drink." This said, the other man popped the cork from the bottle, and poured the contents into Edward's mouth.

Edward cringed, but drank. Ever since his run-in with the Shaman and his "love-potion", he was wary of magic in general, and alchemy in particular. He had, however, imbibed enough potions during his stay in the Cheydinhal chapel to put aside his squeamishness in the face of injury and pain.

He shivered as he felt the cool, light liquid trace its way down his throat and into the depths of his stomach. The sensation passed quickly, however, and with it went the pressure and cramping of his neck and back.

"There we are, sir," the valet nodded. "You should be fine now."

Edward pushed himself up, and was relieved to find the pain that his first attempt had induced did not resurface. Turning immediately to the elf, who stood glaring at him, and his servant, he demanded, "How did we get out of that?"

"Well, sir, Docada and I were fighting...and then we saw what they had done to you – we thought they killed you. As you can understand, we went into a...well, a rage sir. They hardly stood a chance after that."

Edward stared at him disbelievingly. It was hard enough to see the glowering elf upset in anyway at his demise; it was quite impossible, however, to picture him shaking his cowardice to fight. "Docada?!" he demanded.

"Yes sir," Dragonheart nodded.

"Don't lie to me, you fool! Tell me what happened!"

"I'm not lying, sir. Look!" Here he pointed to the road, where there lay a dozen bodies. "See that one? That's the one that Docada killed."

Edward glared at his servant, ready to demand the truth yet again.


	116. Chapter 116

When news to hear is bad,

Better that it is directly had;

Though grim it be to tell,

Sooner said, sooner all will be well.

-- An excerpt from a piece translated in the scholarly work "_Writings of Old, Dead People_"

Chapter One Hundred and Sixteen

After both telling their part of the story – Dragonheart explaining that he had killed eleven warriors whilst Docada killed one, and Edward claiming (falsely) that he had been investigating the Mythic Dawn undercover – the idea of how they were going to travel had to be addressed.

Seeing as how one of their horses had been killed, and all of the Mythic Dawn horses had either died in battle or fled, this was a predicament indeed. Edward had insisted that his servant surrender his horse, and Dragonheart had agreed on the condition that Docada ride with Edward. This arrangement had understandably infuriated both Imperial and elf, but Dragonheart persisted, saying that the stronger horse would have to bear two riders, whilst the old nag could only bear one.

Much protesting, sulking and whining had ensued, but, eventually, Edward, under threat of riding to the Priory with Docada, agreed to take back his mare, and let his servant keep his own horse.

So, the trio set out once more, putting as much distance between themselves and the fallen Mythic Dawn agents as possible, and stopped to camp only when night was well advanced. Dragonheart insisted on sitting the watch, and this time Edward did not protest. The remainder of the evening passed uneventfully, and they were able to rise and set out early.

Before long, the Priory was in view, complete with heads on pikes in an advanced state of decay. Edward's courage waned further yet, but his servant would not be swayed. He was to face Jauffre alone, and the valet would only back him up if necessary. Not even a final plea as he dismounted could shake Dragonheart; so, the elf and the servant headed for the stables, and Edward, with trembling knees, headed for the Priory residence.

Glancing over his shoulders with every imagined noise or shadow, he made his way to the door and, summoning all of his courage, knocked.

"Come in!" a voice, so cheery that it sent shivers up Edward's spine, called out.

Gulping in fear, the Imperial pushed open the door and stepped inside, trying not to think of what hideous trap must surely await his arrival for Friar Jauffre to summon him with so much good will in his tone. There was, however, no trap waiting, nor no blood on the floor as there had been previously; indeed, everything was well-lit, tidy and pristine. Venturing in a step further, he heard loud humming coming from a distant room. "Friar Jauffre?" he inquired timidly.

The humming stopped, and footsteps answered his query. In an instant, a strange apparition appeared in the doorway. It was Friar Jauffre, but not the Jauffre he remembered. Instead of a mad monk dripping in blood and pacing maniacally, he appeared a sane baker or cook, wearing a flour covered apron and carrying a mixing bowl of some sort. "Edmond!" he greeted.

Edward shook all the more at that cheerful call, and the disconcerting similarity between it and the way Vicente had used to greet him. "Friar Jauffre?"

"Ahh, so you've returned."

"I...yes, I suppose...it would be...true to say that," he stammered.

"Good, good! You're just in time!"

"In time?" Edward gulped.

"That's right! In time to join me. Lunch will be ready soon. Come!" And, with this imperious command, he turned on his heel. Somehow, Edward's quaking legs found the strength to follow. Jauffre led him into a side room which was, at present, laden with foods of all varieties. Breads, meats, rolls, pies and pastries adorned the tables.

"Are you...that is, are there...people actually coming over here?" Edward asked, his tone expressing so much wonder that he immediately regretted asking the question.

Jauffre, however, seemed not to mind. "Oh, no...that is, until you showed up."

"Oh...then...what is all this food for?"

The friar, his back to Edward as he prepared a pan of something-or-other, shrugged his shoulders. "Well, I felt like cooking...and once I start at something, it's hard to stop. That's why it was most opportune, your coming here. Now you can help me eat it."

Edward blinked. If his assignment the last time he'd been here – burying all those bodies – had been difficult, this seemed impossible. There was so much food here that he doubted he'd be able to consume it all in a week, much less before some of the less easily preserved foods spoiled.

"You know," Jauffre was continuing, "that's the one bad thing about having the priory all to myself. It's not as much fun to cook when you have no one to make eat it." He glanced up and smiled at Edward. "That's why it's nice to have company."

Edward shifted uncomfortably, feeling suddenly like a cow or sheep being fatted for slaughter. "Yes...well, umm, that sounds...very nice...but I'm actually here with news...about the Emperor."

At the word 'Emperor', Jauffre's easy manner melted away, and he was suddenly the rigid soldier he'd been the first time they'd met.

Edward's discomfort grew at the suddenness of this change, although he couldn't say for certain which side of Jauffre scared him the most – obsessed cook, or deranged soldier.

"The Emperor?" Jauffre asked, his tone formal and businesslike.

"Yes," Edward answered, stammering out quickly as he saw Jauffre's face light in an eager manner, "No! That is, yes. I mean, no."

Jauffre's expression darkened. "What are you saying, you blithering fool?"

Edward was too frightened to even remark the interesting contrast between the demanding, albeit congenial, host the monk had been moments earlier, and the alert, impatient military man he had become. It was all he could do to stammer out, "I...I...I..."

"Do you have news for me?" Jauffre demanded.

The harshness of the other man's tone restored some sense of command to Edward, and he found his voice again. "No. That is, not 'news' per se, as news tends to be intelligence of a recent variety recounting facts or events that have occurred in a time frame nearer the present than not, although that in and of itself is subjective and open to varied interpretations of a wide range; that said, I am operating under the normally accepted and widely used, albeit unwritten and unformalized, usage – which is to say, the commonly understood meaning of the word. So to say that one has 'news' of the Emperor is not...well, not true, as – as we've just established – new is intelligence of a recent variety, and not of things that have happened months or even a year ago."

Jauffre blinked at him. "Is that a yes or a no?"

"Yes," Edward agreed, clarifying, "I mean, it is a no. That is, it..."

Jauffre glared at him, interrupting, "Are you saying that you've learned something, but that it's old news?"

"Ah!" Edward exclaimed, lighting on another means of stalling. "And there you have it, in that fascinating term, 'old news'. It is a contradiction in terms, in fact, of the established and accepted understanding of news, but not perhaps the more demanding and technical definition of the word which may allow for the usage in such a sense as to render a term such as 'old news' clear and understandable, despite its seeming a contradiction."

Jauffre's jaw clenched, and Edward fell silent. "So you _do _have some intelligence of the Emperor?"

Edward hesitated. His pontification on the nature of news at end, his mind was blank as to how to answer Jauffre. His resolve to tell the truth had vanished, but now he was left with no alternative. "Yes," he answered finally.

"And?" Jauffre prompted, his voice more of a growl than anything else.

"And...well...that is, I fear that the Emperor is not in such a state as might be wished by those wishing well for the Emperor, because, in actuality, his state is...that is, it could be construed to be...well, not quite living."


	117. Chapter 117

What secrets can death conceal,

And what mysteries life reveal?

For what is unseen can be seen,

At the whims of that dark queen.

-- _Tribute to Lady Fate_, by Poeticus the Poet

Chapter One Hundred and Seventeen

A roar of fury so loud that it traveled from the Priory house to the stables was signal enough for Dragonheart that things were not going well for Edward. Racing for the Priory, he let himself in without knocking, and would have burst upon the pair if not for the hurried sound of his friend's voice.

"I'm afraid...that is, bandits murdered him in the Bruma mountains, but, you see, my servant I plan to go kill them to avenge the Emperor's murder, and..."

"Avenge him?" Jauffre's voice broke in.

"Yes?" came Edward's timid, almost apologetic response.

"Good, good. You are right. That is what must be done. We must find them, and pull their entrails out with our bare hands, as a sign to men and gods that we will not tolerate such treachery!"

"Umm...exactly, yes, that's exactly what we're planning to do."

"Good, good! We may be bereft of an Emperor, and the Empire may crumble into ruin and despair, but at least men will not say that we let the Emperor's killers go free!" This was spoken with such a note of triumphant cheer that Dragonheart cringed. That was Jauffre, to be sure.

"Well...actually..."

Dragonheart cringed again, this time at the sound of Edward's voice. It was that low, calculating and undisguised tone that he had come to recognize as symbolizing some foolish, inane planning on his master's part.

"Yes?" Jauffre's bellowing query broke in.

"The Empire might not...that is to say, I've never told you about my parents, have I?"

Dragonheart's eyes bulged in terror – not for himself, but for his friend. He knew well enough what Edward was about; he was preparing to tell that ridiculous lie about being the Emperor's illegitimate son. And that, the valet knew, was sure to get him killed, if nothing else would, for Jauffre would say it was blasphemy against the dead Emperor.

Thinking it better to burst in now and risk Jauffre's wrath upon himself, rather than let Edward seal his doom for sure, he sprinted into the room. "Sir!" he greeted. "The horses are stabled, as you ordered." Then, turning to Jauffre to present his compliments – and, he hoped, stem the tide of reprobation that his unsolicited entrance had surely warranted, at least in the monk's eyes – he froze in surprise.

The blood lust the monk had been expressing in his last few comments was nowhere to be seen in his demeanor. Instead, he gaped for a moment in his direction, and then fell to one knee. "My liege!" he whispered in a quiet, reverent voice, as he clasped one arm over his heart.

Dragonheart flinched, and glanced behind him quickly. That was the greeting due the Emperor. No other man, in jest or reverence, was ever to be greeted in that way. Was it possible, Dragonheat wondered, that Jauffre had found some other heir, besides Matthieus, and had him staying here – and that he was standing, not bowing, and with his back to his king?

Seeing with relief that there was no one there, he turned back to the monk, only to be surprised a second time. The soldier's ruddy face had gone ashen, and he was stammering out hurried phrases that were, at first, unintelligible.

"Dear gods," he was saying, "I never...that is, I never thought Uriel and his sons would die...and if I had...I never would have...well, I know you hated all those nights digging trenches and graves...and the combat lessons that lasted all day...but they were the right thing to do...if I'd done more, then maybe you'd still be...please forgive me, your highness!"

Dragonheart blinked in shock. He'd always known Jauffre was a bit off his rocker, but this behavior was just too much. He looked as though he'd seen a ghost, and was acting as though he was conversing with one.

Edward, too, seemed as surprised as the valet, for he glanced about the room, and then back at the monk with a look of bewilderment. "What...who are you talking to?" he asked at length.

"The Emperor!" Jauffre whispered, glancing at Edward. A flicker of fury crossed his face, and he reached over and yanked the Imperial to his knees. "Show some respect!" he hissed. Then, turning back to face the entrance, he continued, "I'm sorry you're dead, your majesty! I should have worked harder to make you a better fighter...I should have readied you to face this world. I shouldn't have let you stay so soft and easy to kill!"

Dragonheart recoiled a little. Obviously, Jauffre _did_ believe he was conversing with a ghost; and, as uncomfortable as the deranged monk made everyone feel as a matter of course, this was beyond anything he'd ever seen before.

"But...but there's no one there!" Edward protested, rubbing his palms, which had also impacted with the priory floor when Jauffre pulled him down. "Only my servant."

The monk turned to Edward at these words with such a fury that Dragonheart felt a flicker of fear in his own heart. "How _dare_ you refer to your Emperor with such contempt, you filthy blasphemer?" the friar demanded. This question was immediately followed up by pouncing on Edward, and using his head, hands and feet to pummel the Imperial.


	118. Chapter 118

A man without friends bemoans his fate,

Whilst he traverses his lonely halls and sits at his empty table

Yet knows he not the blessing he has received

For he has never endured the fawning of the worthless and unstable.

-- _Friendship_, by the Emperor Poet

Chapter One Hundred and Eighteen

Docada, who had remained behind when Dragonheart left, crept into the Priory house. He could hear screaming and cries, and he feared some harm might befall his Champion. It was true that, in actuality, he would prove very little help if there was danger; and yet he could not sit by and let the Grand Champion die without him.

He entered at precisely the moment that Friar Jauffre had launched his assault on Edward, and the elf looked on with startled amusement as the Imperial was beaten. He wasn't sure what Edward had done to deserve the attack, but he was certain that it was justified all the same. He was, therefore, disappointed, when the Champion raced over and seized Jauffre by the shoulders, protesting, "Friar Jauffre, please, stop!"

Docada was even more amazed than he had been upon entering to see the monk immediately let go, and fall to a groveling position. "Forgive me, your highness," he implored, "but I could not sit idle in the face of such disrespect. Not while I draw breath!"

The elf watched as Dragonheart glanced about in a most discomforted manner, and said, "Forgive my asking, but...to whom are you speaking, Friar Jauffre? I can't see anyone else in the room."

"To you, your majesty!" Jauffre explained. "Who else? You are the Emperor!"

Docada gaped as Dragonheart started. "You don't mean...you're not saying..._me_?" the latter asked, glancing about as though he feared the monk were addressing some invisible creature.

"Of course! Emperor Martin!"

A woozy voice emanated from the heap that Jauffre's attack had left. "Martin...yesh...thatsh what he said..."

"Emperor?" Dragonheart repeated, his voice tinged with astonishment. "But surely...you must mean Matthieus, Friar Jauffre!"

Friar Jauffre's head popped up from the supplicating position he'd occupied, and he blurted out, "Matthieus? The Nord bastard?" Then, cringing and coloring, he hastened to say, "Forgive me, my liege...but...what of the Nord?"

"Isn't...isn't he the Emperor?"

"Of course not! You're the Emperor! That is, you would be, if the bandits hadn't killed you in the Jerral mountains."

Docada, barely able to take all of this in, much less process any of it, saw his Champion recoil.

"Dead? I'm not dead, Friar Jauffre! It was Matthieus who was murdered in the mountains, not I."

"Ah!" Jauffre exclaimed, leaping to his feet and grasping Dragonheart's arm. His face took on a look of astonished pleasure as his fingers sunk deep into the arm, and Dragonheart winced in obvious pain. "You're _not_ dead! You live!"

The Champion recoiled a step as he pulled loose from Jauffre's grasp. "Yes, I...I know."

"But that fool...that idiot...he told me that you were dead! So when you showed up here...I assumed...well, that you were a specter come back to torment me with my failure at preparing you."

Dragonheart cleared his throat, and said, "Are you telling me, Friar Jauffre, that it is I, Martin, who is Emperor? And not my friend, Matthieus? That we made a mistake in thinking you said Matthieus was Emperor?"

"Yes, of course. I never said that!" Jauffre insisted. "I told that idiot-" Here, he kicked Edward's still swooning body. "-that the Emperor's name was _Martin_."

"But...but my parents were farmers!" Dragonheart persisted. "How could I be the Emperor's son? I worked the fields with my father every day, until I came here."

Jauffre shook his head. "Did you never wonder why, if your father was a Dunmer, you inherited none of his features? Not one?"

"No, not really."

Jauffre sighed, and his face took on a momentary look of annoyance. It was gone in the next instant, however. "Because you're not really a Dunmer! You're an Imperial, with the blood of the Septims running through your veins!"

"But how...why...?" Dragonheart stammered.

Jauffre shook his head. "We can go over all of that later," he assured him. "For now, all that matters is that you are the Emperor. And we have to get you to safety – immediately!"

By this time, Docada had managed to grasp enough of what had been said to know what he had to do next. Coming forward and falling to his hands and knees, bowing so low that his forehead touched the floorboards, he said, "Oh, my Emperor! A Champion _and_ an Emperor! Oh, my liege, I will serve you forever! I will follow you and worship you and do your bidding for the rest of my life!"


	119. Chapter 119

It's a pleasant thing to have friends in high places,

If you're a good friend in return;

But terrible indeed to find the man you've crossed

Has surpassed you in this world.

-- Treatise on Friendship, author unknown

Chapter One Hundred and Nineteen

Edward sat nursing his wounds, his head resting in his palms, whilst Dragonheart and Jauffre discussed their next move. His valet – Martin, the Emperor – had insisted that the monk fetch a healing potion for his physical injuries, but these were not physical wounds that he nursed at the moment.

Instead, Edward was at the present drowning in a sea of humiliation, fear, remorse, disbelief and betrayal. He had finally accepted, at least in principle, that his servant was in fact the Emperor; but the sheer injustice of the revelation floored him. How could the gods, knowing the weight of his virtues in comparison to that of his wayward servant, choose to so elevate the latter? And, as if it wasn't humiliating enough that his servant – his servant! – had been handpicked by the gods to rule the Empire, how much more so that he should now have to grovel and bow, and observe all the sickening courtesies of etiquette that royalty demanded? What, too, if his servant was of a malicious, vengeful nature? Would the Emperor, who had no master, hold it against the man who once mastered him? And would Edward's own behavior – justified in all particulars, of course, but occasionally open to misinterpretation by lesser minds than his – be used as justification for his servant to betray him? Would Martin resent the fact that Edward had never bothered to inquire of his name, and so delayed the day that he discovered his identity? These thoughts and more filled his mind, and he found himself shaking with fury and fear – fury at the gods, his servant, Friar Jauffre and the sycophantic elf, and fear for his own person at the hands of an Emperor who, he knew, would be unreasonable, cruel, malicious, given to whims, follies and vanities, driven by petty grievances and pride, and forgetful of all that he owed to him.

It was at the moment that his thoughts came to this particular milestone that Martin and Jauffre approached. Edward felt his nerves fraying, knowing without even being told that the Emperor had already decided some terrible fate for him.

"Edward," Martin spoke, "Jauffre and I have put together a plan. We're going to a fortress controlled by the Blades, Cloud Ruler Temple." He hesitated visibly, and Edward felt the net of his doom encircling him. "You understand, of course, how this changes things...I mean, to begin with, you'll need to find a new valet." Edward saw Jauffre cringe at this statement, but Martin seemed oblivious to the fact. "And I know you have no obligation to do so, and may have other plans...but...well, I owe you much already -- I never would have discovered my true identity if you hadn't set out on this quest, and you will always have the eternal gratitude of your Emperor -- but I would ask one thing more...will you come to Cloud Ruler Temple – you, Jauffre, and Docada, as you are my most trusted friends and confidantes – and join me in the struggle to take back my empire?"

Edward blinked at him. He wasn't really sure what struggle the Emperor was talking about – wasn't it just a matter of putting on the crown and lighting a silly fire? Nonetheless, he was thrilled to not be facing execution or torture or some other evil fate; and more thrilled yet to be included in the list of a king's most trusted friends. It might be humiliating to be surpassed by your servant, but it was not so bad to have the king count you amongst his friends. "Well, I don't know if I speak for the elf," Edward answered, "but of course I will come. I would be honored!"

At the same time, Docada came forward, bowing absurdly low. "It would be a privilege, master! An honor, my liege! I would be humbled, thrilled, beyond joy!"

Edward and Jauffre grimaced in unison, but Martin smiled. "Thank you, Docada – and please, get up. I may be Emperor, and I may have to fight the Mythic Dawn and all of that, but I'm not about to have people groveling around me!"


	120. Chapter 120

An Emperor's path is fraught with danger

But worst amongst all threats,

Is not the deadly blade of a murderous stranger,

But the slippery words of friends.

-- _The Emperor's Path_, by the Emperor Poet

Chapter One Hundred and Twenty

Edward's joy at being chosen to be one of Emperor Martin's new knights was short-lived – quite short lived, in fact. This was a product of two revelations. First, he'd learnt that Cloud Ruler Temple was a fortress in the barbarous northern reaches, right by Bruma. Secondly, he was told that Martin insisted on following through with his mad plan to hunt the bandits who had murdered his friend. In fact, he planned to use his trip to Cloud Ruler Temple as his opportunity to do so. Jauffre was no more pleased about this fact than was Edward, and for some of the same reasons. As far as the monk was concerned, he thought it obscene that the Emperor would risk his life to avenge a barbarian mongrel, and he felt that their more pressing concern must surely be saving the life of the Imperial Emperor, as opposed to avenging the life of a Nord nobody – even if it did mean introducing a handful of other Nords to the sharp edge of a blade.

Edward's ideas ran in a similar vein, except that he was afraid for his own life, and not that of the Emperor. Yet Dragonheart was determined, and neither Grandmaster nor former employer could sway him. Docada, of course, was adamantly on Martin's side, as he would have been regardless of the Emperor's intentions.

So, with nothing left to do but comply, Edward and Jauffre set about readying for the trip. Edward was silently cursing the rapidity with which his insolent Emperor had found a commanding, assured center. How many days, after all, had he willingly, blindly followed the dictates of an employer who did not even pay him. Why now, so suddenly, did he decide to grow a mind of his own?

"_But then_," Edward realized, the many instances in which they'd disagreed and quarreled playing through his mind, "_he always was a pompous know-it-all bastard._" Here, he sneered. In Martin's case, that was more than an insult – it was the truth. The idea brought a smile to Edward's face, and he determined that he must use the word frequently in his Emperor's hearing, so as to fill the the pretentious upstart with consternation, and, hopefully, humble him a bit.

"What are you laughing at?" Jauffre demanded, staring at Edward with eyes that spoke of deep distrust.

Edward gulped. "Nothing...I mean...that is...how exciting it is that, umm, I know the Emperor."

Jauffre exhaled in what sounded like a soft growl. "Yes...as if you weren't bad enough, that filthy little elf too..."

Edward started. "_Does he mean Docada?_" he wondered. "Elf?"

"Yes...that Bosmer that the king insists must accompany us." Jauffre shuddered. "Elves...never could stomach the creatures. No fight in them at all. And they may have longer lifespans than the average mortal, but, once they're dead, they're useless." He practically spat the last word out, so great was his obvious disdain.

"Useless?" Edward found himself asking against all better judgment. It was the sort of question that he knew he shouldn't ask as the answer would be appalling, and he'd wish it unsaid the moment it had been uttered...and yet the need to know spurred him on.

"They rot in half the time a normal man takes to decay," Jauffre answered, shaking his head with marked disgust. "An Imperial...good, strong flesh, that lasts a long time, even in the sunlight. Bretons are a little worse, but not too bad. The same with Redguards and Orcs. Khajiit and Argonians rank in the best as far as trophies...but _elves_." He sighed in that low growl again, and shook his head. "Useless. You put one of their heads out in the sun, and in no time it's all shriveled up and about as intimidating as a pile of minotaur turds."

Edward gulped. He had been right to think that asking was a bad idea.


	121. Chapter 121

Supplications of the hypocrite,

Fall on ears gone deaf,

For the gods will not brook mockery.

-- Excerpt from _The Hypocrite_

Chapter One Hundred and Twenty-One

Edward was shivering, huddled in the back of a bouncing wagon alongside of Jauffre. Despite the comfort another body's heat would have provided, he was keeping as great a distance as possible between himself and the little monk as they made their way through the Jerral mountains.

He almost regretted, now that it was too late to change his mind, opting to be one of the two that hid in the wagon. Though accompanying Martin outside would have meant putting himself directly in harm's way, at least then he would have been moving and keeping warm. As it was, he and Jauffre were slowly turning into human icicles as they waited for the bandits to descend on their party; at least, he was. The friar had probably consumed enough alcohol to survive for a month in the mountains.

Meanwhile, Martin and Docada were outside, leading the wagon from Chorrol to Bruma in the guise of wine importers. Jauffre had declared that his presence would be too intimidating for any potential attackers, and so he had better stay under cover in the wagon, surrounded by the store of liquor. Edward's suspicion that this was more a product of his desire to have instantaneous access to a cart full of alcoholic beverages than anything else was justified by the other man's continued imbibing. But Edward's hasty volunteering to join Jauffre so as not to intimidate the attackers by too large a presence was also borne of ulterior motives. For Edward's part, he was huddled in the back of the wagon out of pure cowardice, hoping that the arrows, cleavers and hammers of the bandits would not find him here.

At present, Jauffre was wrestling with the cork of a wine bottle, and humming lowly, but in a somewhat inebriated manner. Edward rolled his eyes discreetly. Outside, he could hear the nonstop prattle of Docada, and he grimaced at the sound. The elf had not stopped chattering since they'd left the Priory – not that he had really _stopped_ chattering even whilst they were at the Priory...or anywhere else, for that matter. He had, at least, however, slowed his prattle down a bit back at Weynon Priory, no doubt out of amazement at Jauffre's revelation. The surprise worn off, however, he had resumed his rapid pace.

"You know, I never dreamed I would meet an Emperor," he was saying. "It seemed too good to be true when I met the first Grand Champion – and that was not a coincidence, I assure you. I had to stalk him for three months before I got a chance to actually meet him face to face – I had sent him letters beforehand, but he said he never got them. Which really says a lot for the Imperial City's mail system, since I sent at least three letters a day every day for three months; that's something you'll have to take care of when you're Emperor, Your Majesty. I mean, just think of the problems that could create, with hundreds of letters going astray like that. Anyway, after I found him, I wouldn't let anyone send me away...even when they managed to lock me out, I always found a way to prove my loyalty and allegiance to my Champion. But, you know, now that I reflect on it, he wasn't worthy of my adoration, as you are, because he didn't appreciate it...not even a little. I mean, I know I am low and worthless compared to one of your glory and greatness, my Liege, but he was downright cruel to me. He would do things that were just..just awful! He would yell at me, and tell me I was stupid. And you know I am not stupid. Surely, my intellect doesn't compare to yours, or any Champion's, but that isn't the same thing as being stupid."

Edward groaned as Jauffre continued to hum and Docada continued to talk. "Oh gods," he pleaded silently, not sure of which gods, exactly, he was summoning, just so long as it did the trick. "Please...let the bandits come already!"


	122. Chapter 122

Come, come, are you ready?

The fight is on, don't you know?

Have you a sword, have you mail?

Better hurry, no time to slow!

-- _The Fight Is On_, Arena themed children's rhyme

Chapter One Hundred and Twenty-Two

Two dozen eyes watched the little cart slowly making its way through the mountain pass. A man, an Imperial by the look of him, and an elf with bright yellow hair accompanied it. There were two horses pulling the cart, and a change of two horses trailing it. The man seemed annoyed, and the elf was talking.

"Merchants," one of the watchers grunted.

"Wine importers, from the south," another returned.

"How do you know?"

Half a smile and "They stopped at Applewatch and sold a few bottles the other night," answered this query.

The other Nords grimaced. "You're sick, Dungar," one responded. "She's old enough to be your mother."

"Grandmother," another corrected.

"And a hundred times hotter than those young things you like," the grinning Nord answered. "Women are like wines, the older the better; and Perennia is the finest wine I ever had the good fortune of coming across."

For a few minutes, the Nords fell to arguing about the virtues or lack thereof of their cohort's affair with Perennia Draconis, owner of Applewatch, but at last one man drew them away from this discussion. "It's his business. Let him be. After all, she gives us good information, and she hides us when we need hiding." A few grumbling voices answered, but he continued, "And while you're nagging him like a bunch of gossipping housewives, _they're_ getting away." This was said with a jerk of his head in the direction of the wagon and its owners. "And my wine with them."

Meanwhile, down by the cart, the little yellow-haired elf, who was, of course, Docada, was speaking to the Imperial, who was, of course, Martin. "So, sir, when you're Emperor, do you think you'll still fight in the Arena? I would love to see more Championships, to watch you destroy all challengers!"

"Shhh..." Martin whispered, certain that his ears had caught some distant sound carried down to him on the mountain breeze.

"Although I suppose you might have other things to do...but maybe on weekends?" the elf continued, either having missed or ignored the command to fall silent.

"Docada, be quiet!" Dragonheart said, his voice low. He was struggling to maintain a normal attitude, and yet draw the elf's attention to what he was increasingly sure was their peril.

"Emperor and Arena fighter, that would be so...what, my Lord?" Docada asked. "Did you say something?"

"Yes – hush!"

"Oh, of course. I didn't realize I was bothering you, my liege. Forgive me – you've only to tell me to fall silent, and I'll be as silent as -" At that very moment, an arrow whizzed past Docada's face, and lodged itself into the side of the cart. The elf loosed a high shriek of terror.

"Quick!" Martin commanded. "Get to the other side of the cart!" Docada was still screaming, so he seized the elf and pulled him down with him. Arrows continued to fly, but they were now coming from the opposite side of them and, for the most part, planting themselves in the side of the cart.

Terrible screams seemed to echo off the mountainside behind them, and the elf's shrieking grew in intensity. "Quiet!" Dragonheart commanded, but to no avail. He wanted to be sure of the Nords' distance, not just by battlecries, but also by footfalls, and the elf was making that difficult.

At the same time, he pulled a bow and quiver from underneath the tarp that covered the wagon. Nocking an arrow, he tried to focus on a scream to pinpoint its issuer; then, rising in that direction, he brought his arrow up. He took only a moment to aim and loose, and he was behind the wagon again. It was not a moment too soon, either, for an arrow whizzed past his head just as he was dropping to cover.

The horses, meanwhile, were beginning to rear in terror, and he feared that they would soon bolt, and take with them their barrier.

Once more he stood to shoot, this time aiming in the direction from which the last arrow had come. Again, he ducked down as soon as the arrow was loosed. The Nords, he had seen, were close about them now. "Jauffre!" he said, his voice as low as he could keep it while still being heard over the elf. "Get ready!"


	123. Chapter 123

Cowering in his corner,

Concealed in his refuge,

Coward, oh! Coward!

Thy name is Edward.

-- The Song of Edward, verse ten

Chapter One Hundred and Twenty-Three

Jauffre leapt out of the cart, his eyes flashing at least as much as his blade, and Edward pulled the tarp back over himself. The Imperial was whimpering in terror and plugging his ears with his fingers so as to drown out the sounds of battle outside. Here, in this bower of shattered glass, empty bottles and rough wood, he imagined he was safe; and, to a certain extent, he was, at least as long as Jauffre, Dragonheart and Docada proved sufficient to combat the attackers. The Nords, he knew, would not deliberately shoot at the cart for fear of destroying their spoils; and so whimpering and cringing, he curled into a fetal position.

He could still hear the dim clanging of metal and the distant screams of men and elf in their various tones, and so he buried his head in his arms. His heartbeat seemed louder than the hoofbeats of a cavalry charge, and his pulse more ferocious than the crashing waves of the sea.

Suddenly, though, his heart seemed to stop beating even as his pulse spiked; a hand clamped down on his arm, and was drawing away the tarp.

Edward loosed a scream, writhing in his cover in an attempt to ward the attacker away. His eyes, though, he pressed tight shut, knowing that death must surely be imminent. Somewhere in the distance he heard the elf screaming in abnormally high pitch, and he was sure that Jauffre and Martin had been killed, while Docada was in the process of being finished off.

"_Ye gods! That it should come to this! That I should now, at last, be about to receive my due, on the right hand of the Emperor, and instead be hacked to pieces by a bunch of savage Nords!_" He felt fingers dig deep into his arm in a clutching grab, and he loosed a shriek of terror. "_Damn that bastard Emperor!_" he cursed, issuing what he assumed was his last thought on earth. "_Damn him for dragging me up here to be killed by these barbarians!_"

He felt light wash over him and frigid air assail his body, as two hard, bony objects – fists or knees, he thought – impacted with his chest. Still, he could not bring himself to open his eyes. He would prefer not to see his demise coming.

To his surprise, however, he felt nothing as the light disappeared. "_Am I dead?_" he wondered. "_Was it that quick, that I didn't even feel it?_" His curiosity proving too much to resist, he opened one eye a sliver. With a mixture of relief and regret, he saw that he was not dead, but had been joined by Docada. The elf, in imitation of his own posture, was huddled in a fetal position, eyes closed, and screaming.

Then, Edward realized, the two bony objects that had come into such sharp contact with his chest were actually Docada's knees. His eyes opened wide and his head rose a little as anger filled him at this revelation. How dare this filthy elf, he wondered, compromise his hiding space, and knee him in the process? Unplugging his ears, he was assailed full-force by the wailing of the little creature; at last, his anger burst forth in a torrent he could not control. He launched himself at the elf, punching, elbowing, biting even, and screaming with all the power of his lungs; he attacked with all the pent up rage he'd felt at the promotion of his servant to Emperor; at the frustration of listening to Docada babble nonstop on their long journey through the mountains; at his fury at having been beaten and abused by Jauffre; and with all the furious indignation he felt at facing death in the mountains at the hands of barbarian bandits all to aid a long-dead barbarian.

For a few moments at this onslaught, the little elf rocked back and forth, as if trying to brush Edward aside with his body. After a particularly hard blow, however, he opened his eyes; seeing his attacker, his expression morphed from fear to astonishment to fury in the space of about one second. Then, rather than the cowering wreck he had been a moment earlier, Docada began to defend himself with at least as much rage as Edward attacked.

Even as the mortal combat outside continued, the pair busied themselves attacking one another in every conceivable way. So furious was their fight that the cart in which they hid began to rock and sway as they jumped and kicked and fought.


	124. Chapter 124

Lies are so easily unearthed,

That it's better not to attempt them.

But if necessity demands,

Might as well make it a doozy.

-- Excerpt from the chapter "On Lying", in _The Young Nobleman's Guide to Success in Society_

Chapter One Hundred and Twenty-Four

Sweat and blood covering his body, Dragonheart withdrew his blade from the chest of the last Nord. It had been a difficult fight, but he and Jauffre had persevered and triumphed. Ignoring the blood that pulsed through his ears, he tried to concentrate on a different sound, one that seemed out of place.

"What in the blazes?" he heard Jauffre ask.

Turning, his eyes followed the monk's, and he started. The cart of liquor was swaying back and forth, with muffled screams issuing from it. "We missed one!" Dragonheart thought aloud.

"Not again!" Jauffre hissed.

Both men readied their weapons and charged for the wagon, prepared to save whichever of their friends was therein engaged in mortal combat. Leaping into the cart and ripping the tarp off a tumbling pair of bodies, both men stared in astonishment.

Rather than a Nord bandit, they saw Edward and Docada, bloodied, bruised and currently savagely assaulting one another. Edward's teeth were sunk into the elf's shoulder, blood spurting from the wound, whilst the elf throttled the Imperial, whose face was turning a grayish hue that contrasted sharply with the blood dripping out of his mouth and down his chin.

"What in the name of Mehrunes Dagon's buttocks is this?!" Jauffre roared.

Immediately, both men ceased their attack. Loosing Edward's neck whilst Edward spit out his flesh, Docada winced. "I...umm...we..."

"What is going on here?!" Dragonheart demanded, furious at his two friends for such a show of barbarism.

"It, uhh...we..." Edward started, hurriedly wiping the elf's fresh blood from his lips, chin and neck.

"Well?" Jaffre demanded, his eyes burning with a blood lust-induced fever.

"We were, uhh, fighting," Edward stammered.

"Obviously," Jauffre roared. "What about?"

"A, uhmm, sword!" Docada answered.

"A sword?"

"Yes," Edward agreed hastily. "Yes, a sword."

"I, uhh, couldn't find mine, and I was..." Docada started

"Desperate," Edward finished as the elf trailed off. "Yes, he was desperate to fight to save you. And he tried to take my sword. But I was desperate to fight too, and wouldn't let him have it."

"Exactly," Docada nodded hastily, blood oozing from the wound on his shoulder. "He wouldn't let me have his sword."

"You're saying you were both fighting because you wanted to be able to come join in the fighting?" Martin asked, frowning.

"Yes, exactly," Edward nodded.

Jauffre growled, his fingers caressing the hilt of his weapon even as the blood lust ebbed from his gaze. "I'm not sure I buy that..." he muttered.

Martin, meanwhile, stared at them in horrified disapproval. "I can't believe this!" he declared. "How could you – either of you – attack a fellow Knight? Particularly in such a low, disgraceful way as we just witnessed?!"

Edward and Docada cringed. "It was only because...well, because we both worship you so much, my liege," the elf protested. "We neither of us could stand the idea of not defending you."

"Exactly!" Edward agreed hastily.

"We would do anything, even sacrifice our own honor!" the elf continued. "Let the moons and stars bear witness to our devotion to your banner, my Emperor! We would do anything, suffer any ill, for your sake!"

"Yes, exactly!" Edward nodded.


	125. Chapter 125

Success in marriage is akin to a mathematical equation:

Painful but necessary, and vastly advantageous to he who solves it correctly.

For a man must seek to gratify his senses with beauty and charm,

But also to find a worthy woman, of a status above his own but not too high.

-- Excerpt from the chapter "The Intricacies of Courtship", in _The Young Nobleman's Guide to Success in Society_

Chapter One Hundred and Twenty Five

It had been a hard sell, but, eventually, the two miscreants had convinced Emperor and Grandmaster of their noble intentions, regardless of their less-than-worthy behavior. Martin had procured a few healing potions for the pair, and gave them these, along with a stern reprimand. Docada received this rebuke much as a dog used to being beaten might do; he cringed, and cowered and fawned upon his Emperor. Edward's reception was stonier, and he grew grayer and grayer with each word.

Now, abandoning the cart and its pile of empty and shattered bottles, they had saddled their horses and were ready to set out. Jauffre had insisted in decapitating the Nord bandits and storing their heads in the saddlebags of all but the Emperor's mount. These, he'd said, would "come in quite 'andy later on." For his part, Edward shuddered to think how so.

Regardless, leaving behind the wagon, a number of broken bottles, and twelve headless bodies, the party headed out. Jauffre had suggested that they investigate an Ayleid ruin nearby, where, he suspected, the bandits probably hid, and Martin had agreed. It was essential, the Emperor had said, that they hunted down every last one of the bandits so that travelers would no more have to fear death on the highways of the Empire.

The ride was easy enough despite a recent snowfall, and the party, leaving behind a trail of blood dripping from their saddlebags, reached the ruin in a few hours.

Jauffre's surmise had clearly been accurate; there was ample evidence of a bandits' camp here. There was armor and the skeletal remains of someone who had, apparently, ventured in unsuspectingly. This, the monk examined, but was saddened to report, "Too far decayed to be of any use." Whether he was speaking of the armor or the corpse nobody dared to inquire.

Moving on, they found a chamber full of stolen goods, and a number of empty bottles. Wines, ales, and stronger drinks had all been consumed in these old ruins, and in large supply. It was the misappropriated property, however, that caught Dragonheart's eye. This he rummaged through for some time, until, at last, he stopped, in-taking his breath sharply as he uncovered a signet ring.

"My Emperor?" Docada prompted, dropping the trinkets he'd been examining to rush to Martin's side.

"Felicity's ring," the Imperial answered, a strain of sorrow in his voice. "She told me she had given it to Matthieus...and here it is."

Edward saw Jauffre roll his eyes, and fought the urge to do the same. The death of a barbarian mattered about as much to him as the tears of the barbarian Felicity – not at all.

The Emperor, however, was silent, his head bowed, for several minutes. At last, rising, he pocketed the ring and said, "We will see that it is returned to her. For now, though, let us gather up what we can to make this place inhospitable to them, should there be any others out there, and set off."


	126. Chapter 126

The nobleman must seek a woman of rank,

With whom an alliance would be advantageous;

But also a creature of sense who understands

The honor done her by the nobleman's proposal.

-- Excerpt from the chapter "The Intricacies of Courtship", in _The Young Nobleman's Guide to Success in Society_

Chapter One Hundred and Twenty-Six

Though he'd shirked as much work as possible, Edward's muscles still ached from the little he'd been forced to do. He stood outside the entrance to the ruin, munching a piece of rather stale bread, and sighed. Even from way out here, he could hear the Bosmer's voice. The elf never seemed to tire of talking. "Too bad," he thought, "I hadn't gotten my teeth a little bit higher earlier. Then I might have ripped his throat out." As appealing as permanently silencing the elf was, the idea of tearing out his throat with his bare teeth seemed to quell his appetite.

So lost in thoughts as he was, he started to hear a low growl nearby. Spinning around, he saw Jauffre staring darkly into the ruin.

Edward blinked in fear. He wasn't quite sure what had aroused the monk's fury, but the other man's expression nonetheless frightened him.

"Filthy elf..." Jauffre muttered.

Nodding vigorously, Edward felt relief swarm him. "I know..." he answered. This, at least, was one of the few subjects that he and the friar could agree upon. "It's disgusting how the Emperor puts up with him – a vile, cowardly barbarian."

Jauffre nodded. "It's disgraceful," he agreed. "A slur on the Emperor's good name – and he just won't see it."

Edward nodded and sighed. It really was vexing to see how foolishly welcoming Martin was being to the barbarians.

Motion from the mouth of the ruin attracted both men's attention, and the younger flushed as the Emperor emerged. It was one thing to badmouth your king, and another to get caught doing it.

Martin, however, seemed not to notice; he walked past with a nod, saying only, "Docada is burning one last pile of stuff...he'll be out in a moment. Then seal this place up, so that they cannot return."

"Of course, my liege!" Jauffre saluted.

Martin walked past, and Edward smirked in thought. "Too bad," he whispered conspiratorially, "we couldn't seal the filthy elf in there."

Jauffre started at his words, and Edward felt his stomach churn. He was in trouble, he knew it; he'd gone too far with that suggestion.

Too his surprise, however, the monk stared at him in wonderment. "My gods," he said, "can it be that I've misjudged you? You are a man, after all!"

Edward blinked in astonishment. "I...umm...that's right?" he asked, rather than stated, unsure of what that rather unusual observation meant.

Jauffre nodded quickly, clapping him so hard on the shoulder that he thought he might be sent reeling. "Brilliant! It's a brilliant idea!" Glancing over his shoulder, Jauffre stared in the direction of the Emperor. Edward followed his gaze, to see Martin standing a good distance away, his back to them and his head bowed in a contemplative manner. "Now's our chance. He's busy mourning that Nord bastard. Quick, help me close the door!"

Edward stared in stupefaction. Surely, the monk couldn't be serious. Not that, for a moment, he'd be opposed to killing the little elf in any available way...but surely they'd be caught! "But...but won't the Emperor notice?"

Jauffre shook his head. "I've been his teacher long enough to know his weaknesses. He's getting all sentimental now; he's crying because his friend is dead; he's lost in melancholy thoughts." Jauffre smiled in a way that seemed to contradict his mocking tone. "Trust me...he'll be too distracted to notice until it's too late. Now come, help me!"

"But...but-" Edward protested.

"Now!" Jauffre commanded.

Edward started, suddenly more afraid of crossing Jauffre than the Emperor, and hastened to comply.


	127. Chapter 127

To play a good game of deception,

One must have nerves of steel

Tempered by a heart of ice;

Otherwise, the game played is surely death.

-- Excerpt from _Admonition to the Prince_

Chapter One Hundred and Twenty-Seven

Jauffre's surmise had been correct. They had waited a few minutes and then Jauffre had told the Emperor all was done, and that it was time to head out. Martin had nodded, mounted his horse, and never glanced back. They kept a distance behind him, so as not to distract him from his thoughts, and Jauffre conversed with Edward.

"I'm sure the Emperor will be upset when he learns how the unworthy elf abandoned him," the monk was saying.

Edward glanced at him in surprise. "Abandoned? But we locked him-"

Jauffre stared at him with such shocked disdain that he immediately fell silent. "Do you have something to add to that?" the monk demanded.

Edward shook his head hastily. "No, nothing."

"Good. Now, as I said, the Emperor will no doubt take it amiss that the elf left him without so much as a word. But, when he understands the cowardly nature of the elves, and of this one in particular, and how his heart failed him at the sight of so much blood and death, our king will understand."

Edward nodded slowly, both impressed with Jauffre's reasoning and frightened that their deception might be uncovered.

"And there will be enough to occupy him before long anyway," the friar was continuing.

"But if he ever discovers..." Edward started.

"Discovers?" Jauffre repeated, glaring at Edward. "Discovers what? The elf left in a fit of cowardice, at least as far as I know. Look! We've only two horses; he is gone, his horse is gone, and even my saddlebag of heads is gone! I don't know about you, but all I know is that he was a coward, and took whatever opportunity he could find to absent himself from certain danger. Why? Have you some knowledge of your own, some complicity in the elf's disappearance that you'd like to admit?"

Trembling, Edward shook his head. "No sir...none."

"Good...remember it."

This order given, the pair traveled in silence until they reached Cloud Ruler Temple. Edward, despite being thoroughly frozen by this point, couldn't help but being a little awed. It was a huge fortress, hidden amongst the mountain spires so that it proved undetectable until you were practically upon it. Its stone walls rose high and thick, and soldiers in heavy armor patrolled them in pairs.

With a quiet injunction to Edward to stay back a ways, so as not to bring to the Emperor's attention Docada's absence, Jauffre rode forward. The gates parted as he and Martin neared them, and all three entered.


	128. Chapter 128

Oh the terrors that discovery brings,

The dreadful fear that fills the brain,

The song of terror the racing pulse sings

All because from villainy he could not refrain.

-- From _The Villain's Undoing_

Chapter One Hundred and Twenty-Eight

The Blades had greeted their new Emperor with respect and adoration, and all had turned out to hail and welcome him; Martin's mood had seemed on the mend when he'd realized that Docada was missing. Then it had taken all of Jauffre's powers of persuasion to stop the Emperor from leading a search party for the elf, who, he believed, would never have willingly deserted him. Something, he'd protested, must have lured him off; and none of Jauffre's assertions about the weakness of elven nature would dissuade the Emperor. Indeed, it was only after the Grandmaster had agreed to send out his most trusted Blades that had he been able to convince Martin to stay inside the fortress.

The Emperor was then quickly acquainted with the fortress and given a lengthy report to read in order to inform him of the Blades' struggle against the Mythic Dawn, whilst Jauffre promised to send out the search party. After a quick word to a few Blades, who were told to look but find nothing, he then set about his real business – decorating the premise with his trademark heads-on-pikes.

So, whilst riders set out to not find Docada, Jauffre requisitioned ten pikes from the armory. Forcibly enlisting Edward's help, he then went about strategically placing the heads around Cloud Ruler Temple, so that they were visible from all angles. Needless to say, this was hardly an easy task, as the ground outside the fortress -- whatever wasn't rock -- was frozen. At last, though, through sheer force of mania, he succeeded; and he and a nauseous Edward returned to the warmth of the fortifications.

Jauffre headed to the kitchen, and left Edward to his own devices. The Imperial's first move was to wash. He might not have had the courage to refuse to assist with Jauffre's decorating scheme, but he certainly wouldn't go around smelling like half frozen heads and blood if he could help it. Then, he found a bunk and sat down to think. For some reason, his heart and mind were very heavy.

Surely, it had something to do with the increasing reality of the situation -- that his servant was, in fact, the Emperor, and not just on the word of a lone madman, but on the word of all the madman's cohorts. Still, this explanation seemed to miss the deeper, more troubling issue.

Edward sighed in aggravation. It seemed -- though he was loath to admit it -- that his conscience was harassing him; and the more he pretended to himself that he didn't know what about, the worse he felt. Indeed, much to his chagrin, he couldn't repress the guilty shudders that ran through him at the thought of the elf's miserable fate, and his part in it.

"Damn it!" he cursed inwardly. "He's insulted me, laughed at me, opposed me, worshiped my servant and damned me! He deserves to die! I want him dead! So what is this awful weakness that makes me feel bad about it?!" And it was true that he did feel bad...images of the elf dying slowly of starvation or cold filled his mind; images of his last excruciating hours of life; images of his corpse discovered years later, recognizable only by the wisps of bright yellow hair. Rather than filling him with delight, as he'd assumed and expected that they should, they filled him with a terrible sense of wrong-doing and injustice. That, in turn, filled him with fury, both at himself for his weakness and at the elf for causing him to feel so miserable. For the thousandth time, he cursed his conscience. "_Worthless, misdirected, treacherous thing!_"

Still, for all his cursing and denial, he couldn't shake the guilty pangs. Even as he sat. mournfully lost in thought, he could hear the Bosmer prattling away. He could hear all the inane and absurd things the fool would spew in a jumbled mire of verbal pigswill. "Let me see my Champion!" and "I must see the Emperor!" and "I feared for his life! Oh, thank Azura that he lives!" filled his mind. His expression grew more and more annoyed -- not only that, even in death, the vile elf cursed his mind with his babble, but that, even in spite of the aggravation he felt, he still somehow shrunk from what he'd done.

It was only when one of the inane babblings that played through his mind broke into a high wail did Edward start, realizing that the voice was not a spectral memory but a presently occurring reality. "_Ye gods!_" the Imperial thought, his face going ashen. Was it possible? Could it be? Had the filthy elf somehow escaped his confinement?

Rushing out of the barracks, Edward raced to the wall; every step brought him closer to the screaming voice he dreaded most of all. Bounding up a set of stone stairs, he was atop the wall. And there...there, outside the gates, stood the elf, his unique hair-style and bold hair color lending the final proof, if proof was needed after hearing that distinctive, whiny voice, that he had returned.

"I must see the Champion! The Emperor will admit me! Let me in at once!"

Edward collapsed to the stone beneath him, shaking and pale. Somehow, Docada was free...and Jauffre and he were discovered!


	129. Chapter 129

If a man cannot lie his way out of anything,

He should not take up lying to begin with;

For once committed to the course of falsehood,

One is bound to continue on that treacherous path.

-- An excerpt from a piece translated in the scholarly work "_Writings of Old, Dead People_"

Chapter One Hundred and Twenty-Nine

Jauffre's eyes bulged as he first heard the high-pitched wail that he'd come to loathe. This was impossible! He had personally sealed the door -- he and Edward. And, while he wouldn't trust a brass septim in Edward's hands unsupervised, he had seen their work, inspected it with his own eyes. There was no way that a dozen hardy men -- much less one frail elf -- could have budged that door.

Racing as fast as his legs could take him, he was outside the fortress in a few minutes, still wearing his flour covered apron. He had to find that voice, and this time silence it for good, before the wishy-washy Emperor heard it.

This work proved easier than he at first thought, however, as -- no sooner than had the gates opened the fraction that was needed for him to emerge -- he careened into the elf. The impact slowed Jauffre's run, but it sent the elf flying backwards. Unfortunate, then, for the Bosmer that he'd been on the edge of an extraordinarily steep mountainside.

The monk couldn't help but smile as he watched Docada fly backwards, backwards, backwards, and then down, down, down, until he was out of sight. The scream that he loosed, especially, brought a smile to the friar's lips. "...."

Jauffre started, still smiling though, as the Emperor's voice came to his ears. "Docada!"

Concealing his smirk as best he was able, he turned to the king. "Your Majesty!"

Martin had, apparently, also heard Docada's shrieking to gain admittance, for he too had run outside. "Where is he?" he asked. "I heard him!"

Jauffre shook his head. "Heard who, your majesty?"

"Docada!" Martin answered, his eyes roaming the barren mountainside. "Didn't you...I mean, he was here, wasn't he?"

"Ohh, the elf," Jauffre nodded. "Yes, he was here."

"Was? Well, where is he?" Martin demanded, glancing about furiously. "What happened? How did he disappear earlier?"

"Well, your majesty, it's hard to say for certain -- you see, he didn't stay long." Martin's brow creased in confusion, but the friar continued, trying to suppress his smile. "I heard the voice too, of course, and assumed that the ungrateful elf had returned beseeching your forgiveness for his wayward behavior."

Martin stared at Jauffre, his face making clear that he still did not hold with the monk's beliefs about Docada's character, or lack thereof.

"Well, he came running up here, screamed something, and then...well, I'm not quite sure how to say this...but he jumped over the side of the cliff."

Astonishment covering his face, Martin demanded, "What?"

Jauffre nodded understandingly. "I quite comprehend your bewilderment, sir. I was myself astonished. But, as near as I can tell, some strain of remorse, of conscience, of honor finally took hold of the elf's faculties, and drove him to regret his unmanly behavior. So-" Here he broke off, making a gesture of something going up a little and down a lot. Then he finished with a splatting sound.

Martin flinched. "No..." he said. "Surely not! I mean, even if Docada _had_ run off because he was afraid...well, he was...well, too interested in self-preservation to throw himself off a cliff!"

"Too much of a coward, you mean, your majesty?" Jauffre prompted with the tiniest of smiles.

"Well...yes, in a sense," Martin agreed, hastening to add, "But of course he's still young...he's still learning to be an adventurer."

"He _was_ still young," Jauffre corrected, the corners of his mouth twitching.

Martin glared at him. "A search party!" he declared. "You must send out a search party!"

Jauffre stared in astonishment. "A search party? For that stupid elf?" Seeing Martin's change of countenance at these words, he hastened to correct himself. "I mean, for the dear departed boy?"

"Yes!" Martin insisted. "I can't believe that he would kill himself! He must have...have..."

"Yes?" Jauffre prodded, resisting another smile. There really was no explanation for this poser, save the one that the Emperor, in his naivety, would not see.

"Well, slipped perhaps," Dragonheart answered at last.

"Slipped, my liege?" Jauffre asked, an eyebrow raised.

"Yes," the Emperor returned defiantly. "You must send out a party, and find him."

Jauffre sighed. "To what end, your majesty, when there are so many pressing matters at hand?" Martin hesitated. "You surely cannot believe that he would still be alive, after such a jump."

Martin frowned. "Likely not," he agreed. "But...but still, we can at least see that he is given a fitting burial."

"Burial?" Jauffre repeated disdainfully, muttering, "If you're looking for 'fitting', the best he can hope for is that the crows pick his bones dry."

"What?"

"Nothing, my liege. Except that it doesn't make sense to waste the manpower."

"He was a loyal friend and a loyal servant," Martin insisted. "You would do the same for any of your men!"

Jauffre stared at his king, his eyebrows raised. "I would?"

"Well, you'll do it for mine, at least," Martin directed. Jauffre grumbled under his breath, but the Emperor continued. "Go...bring back his body."

At these words, Jauffre's face lit up, and he wondered why he had not thought of this before. Surely, Docada's strange hair and pale skin would make a ghastly and effective trophy; and, elf though he was, in these frigid temperatures, it would be a long time before his flesh decayed beyond the point of being usable.

Martin seemed to sense his thoughts, for he glared at Jauffre, saying, "In one piece. He's not to be...dismembered, do you understand?"

Jauffre flushed, not from embarrassment, but rather fury. "Not...but surely..._decapitation_ would not matter?"

Martin's glare intensified. "Don't even think of it. One piece -- you're to bring him back in one piece!"

Jauffre blinked at this reproof. "One piece?"

"That's right."

Frowning, the monk decided to try one final time. "Very well, my liege. I shall bring back one piece of him."

"All of him!" Martin corrected. "All of him, _in_ one piece."

Jauffre growled under his breath, but nodded acquiescence. "_Ye gods, he's gonna be a load of fun to work for_," he thought, cursing his ill-fortune that his Emperor was such a spineless weakling.


	130. Chapter 130

Harbinger of Sorrow,

Phantom of Remorse,

Specter of Joy...

Love, they call thee.

-- From the Lovelorn Poet's _A Thousand Broken Hearts, _Edition the First

Chapter One Hundred and Thirty

Edward had fallen into a sort of swoon as soon as he'd heard the Emperor's voice. His own demise was near at hand, he felt sure, and the sensation overpowered him. Docada was at the gates, and Martin was about to discover how he'd been trapped, left to starve or dehydrate or freeze in an Ayleid ruin...and at his hands.

So it was that he'd heard Jauffre and Martin's conversation, but only through the haze of a terror-induced half-faint. He'd been vaguely aware, after that, of the monk readying a search party, and likewise semi-aware of the Emperor returning to the inside of the fort.

As his faint wore off and his senses returned, however, he heard some of the Blades around him talking. "Did you see the way he went flying?" one asked, laughing.

"Like he'd run into a brick wall," another agreed.

"Can't understand how the Emperor could give a damn about an elf," a third voice put in. "Especially one who sounds like that." Here at, someone -- presumably, the third speaker -- launched into a shrill, mocking rendition of Docada's cries. "'Let me in! The Emperor will admit me! I must see my Champion!'"

Uproarious laughter all about him shook from Edward's mind whatever cobwebs his swoon had introduced, and he sat up straight. He was surrounded by men and women in armor, all seemingly oblivious to his presence. Their faces were mostly hidden by the helms that signified their membership in that ancient order, the Blades, but he could still make out enough of those about him.

The first was a hardy Imperial, he was sure; and another was a Redguard, he thought with distaste. The third, he saw with a shiver, was a woman, and a Nord at that; in his mind, a woman in armor -- unless it was figure-hugging leather or fur -- must be a disgusting, hulking barbarian, better fitted to a plowshare than a woman's raiment. The fact that she was a Nord only confirmed, to him, his suspicions. He was sure that, underneath that concealing metal, there existed a thick, ungainly, and unattractive body. "Why else would she cover herself in armor like that?"

The woman must have felt his eyes upon her, for she turned a pair of blue eyes in his direction, and then blinked. "Are you alright?" she asked, breaking from the main party to head over to him.

He recoiled as she knelt down beside him and set her helmet aside. "Go away!" he snapped angrily. "I don't need any help from..."

At this point, though, he seemed to lose his voice, for it was at that moment that he beheld her full face. Long, beautiful golden locks spilled over her shoulders, free now from the helmet that had encased them, and small, delicate features, paired with a set of piercing blue eyes, overwhelmed his senses. For a moment, he was lost in the refined dignity of her features, the thoughtful beauty of her face, and the intelligent intensity of her eyes. Then, however, he saw her recoil, as if offended by his words.

"Wait!" he called out, finding his tongue at last. "I...I meant...I think I hit my head..."

She stared at him for a moment, those entrancing eyes coloring with suspicion. "Oh?" she asked. "How?"

"I...I fell."

The affronted expression slipped from face, morphing instead into a mirthful smile. "Falling seems to be quite popular around here all of a sudden."

He blinked at her. "What?"

"The elf, you...who next?" Her companions seemed to have heard her words, for they laughed with her.

Edward colored. "No, it was nothing like that! I..."

"Yes?"

He stammered out a few nonsensical syllables, but was unable to command his tongue in any meaningful way.

Her smile grew more bemused, and, reaching for her helmet, she declared, "I think you'll survive."

He watched her hands -- not huge and grasping as he'd imagined a barbarian Nordic soldier's would be, but small and dainty -- reach past him, and saw her don the helmet and stand. "Wait!" he called as she turned.

She seemed to have no intention of waiting, however, for she continued walking toward her friends. Edward mustered his wits as quickly as possible, and pushed himself to his feet to chase after her.


	131. Chapter 131

Mysterious as the silvery moonlight,

Elegant, graceful and just out of reach,

And ever cold as the night that spawns it;

Alas, tormenter of my soul: woman!

-- From the Lovelorn Poet's _A Thousand Broken Hearts, _Edition the First

Chapter One Hundred and Thirty-One

Edward had been following the Nord girl -- whose name, he'd learnt, was Helgara -- for hours now. That glimpse he'd had of her face was too much for him; he was inexorably smitten. Just as images of an ungainly, repulsive barbarian had first filled his mind when he'd looked upon her, now he was swarmed with thoughts of a delicate, exotic beauty, hidden away from the world, ensconced in the frigid mountains, and all the while pining for a man of worthy character, who would sweep her off her feet and make her his.

Helgara, however, was doing her best to dissuade him of these imaginings. She had told him off twice, in language that would bring a blush to the cheeks of the hardiest trooper, and had threatened more than twice to add his head to Friar Jauffre's collection -- amongst threats of other, less savory, actions involving the removal of specific portions of his anatomy and the disposal of said portions of him in less than pleasant ways.

Edward, however, was not to be dissuaded, and each of these threats served only to convince him of her charming sense of humor. One might have said that the Imperial, his senses heightened by his near brush with death during Docada's reemergence, realized the precariousness of life and so chose to throw caution to the wind and seize the day; or one might have guessed that Edward had, in fact, hit his head as he'd claimed, and was acting as a result of a befuddled brain. Such guesses, however, would have missed the mark entirely.

The truth of the matter was that Edward fancied himself so irresistible, so charming, and so superior to all those about him that he did not for a moment think that the girl's rejection could be serious. How, after all, could she damn _him_ to hell in so many colorful and impolite ways, and actually mean it? Who, if not him, would she turn to? Surely she had never met anyone as charming, sophisticated and virile as him, particularly sequestered up in the mountains as she was, surrounded only by barbarians and brutish, soldierly thugs? No indeed, the thought was laughable; who were these men of war, these primitive oafs, these uneducated killers, compared to him -- noble, sophisticated, suave, and genteel?

So it was clear to his mind that she was simply overwhelmed by him and the sudden, irresistible feelings he must surely have stirred in her heart. She'd channeled her shock and confusion into the only avenue she'd ever known, growing up amongst barbarian Nords and callous soldiers: violence and threats. But that was all over now. Edward would introduce her to new ways and new customs, so different than the barbarian ones she was accustomed to that she could not help but prefer them. Then, she would be his.

This, at least, was how Edward had it all planned out. That said, reality and Edward's plans very rarely coincided, and this was no exception to that long established norm.

"I am telling you for the last time, you miserable little runt," Helgara was at present telling him, "if you don't leave me the oblivion alone, I am going to take this boot-" Here, she jerked her foot toward him. "-And shove it so far up your-"

"You really should learn to take a hint," an observing Redguard interrupted, snickering. "And, trust me, when Helgara says something like that, she means it. And if she doesn't, Roliand will."

Edward frowned at the barbarian who had the audacity to interrupt him whilst he was wooing his lady-fair. "Did I solicit your input, oaf?" he inquired, his head tilted at an angle that allowed him to look down his nose at the man.

The Redguard shrugged broad shoulders, and laughed, "Suit yourself...but don't say I didn't warn you when they're operating on you to take a boot of your-"

"Go away!" Edward snapped. It might be amusing to hear the threat come from the dainty lips of Helgara, but it was something else entirely to hear it from this burly barbarian's mouth.

"Especially if it's Friar Jauffre operating," the Redguard continued, laughing to himself. "I get the impression he doesn't have a high regard for you...and if he's not able to justify a 'slip' that takes your head off...well, you never know what might happen to come off."

Edward blanched at the image of Jauffre cutting of his body parts -- regardless of which ones they were -- and he suddenly felt less romantically inclined than he had a moment earlier.


	132. Chapter 132

Through what power does that vixen, woman,

Ensnare the heart and destroy the mind of man?

How does she turn him from thoughts of duty,

Into a fool fascinated by her charms and beauty?

-- From the Lovelorn Poet's _A Thousand Broken Hearts, _Edition the First

Chapter One Hundred and Thirty-Two

After the Redguard's unwelcome input, Edward's ardor for pursuit of his lady-fair had cooled a bit. Not that he was discouraged, or anything of that sort. No indeed. He just didn't want one of the knuckle-dragging, testosterone-driven thugs residing in the fortress to take it into his head to come rushing to Helgara's "aid". Already, he was sure, they were seething with jealousy at his presence; they were probably just waiting for an excuse to let into him. So, in the two days since, he had been less obnoxious -- ardent, to use his own terminology -- in his pursuit of her.

For her part, Helgara had used his absence, temporary though it was, to fill another Blade, Roliand, in on Edward's unwelcome advances. It had taken all of her considerable powers of persuasion, along with a few threats, to stop the strapping Nord from rushing into Edward's quarters and painting the floor with the contents of his head. It was, she'd told him, her who would gut the impudent maggot, if he was to be dealt with; and, unwillingly, Roliand had agreed.

Edward, though, was oblivious to all of this, for he was busily dreaming up delusional futures for himself and her; contemplating if he would marry the Nord, or simply have his way with her and move on; wondering if he could overcome his distaste for the idea of children, and Nord ones at that, to start a family with her; and imagining how the Emperor would feel once he saw his trophy catch.

Scenes of how terrible life up here, in the frigid reaches of the empire, surrounded by uncultured, uncouth, hormone overloaded primitives, must have been for her filled his mind. He saw it all clearly -- she, the innocent and undefended, and he, the noble champion come to set her free from the barbarians. Sympathy for her plight, the fear and loneliness she must have felt amongst creatures so beneath her, filled his heart, and with it pride, the pride of knowing that he was her sole redemption, her safety and refuge from the barbarians. She was the beautiful goddess imprisoned in the dragon's tower, and he was the brave knight come to slay the monster, set her free and win her eternal love. She was all that a woman should be -- beautiful, and, well, beautiful -- and he was all that a man should be -- brave, reckless, passionate...and the object of the woman's love.

Thinking these things, Edward had slipped into a state so focused in thought that he was oblivious to those around him. So, grinning stupidly whilst his mind worked in befuddled ways, he was unaware of the fact that he was being watched by an angry, intent set of eyes. Finally, however, the searing blue orbs broke through his barrier of fanciful nonsense, and he started, realizing that he was under observation. Looking about for the source of his discomfort, he found himself staring at a tall, broad Nord, whose firm, ruddy features were set into a deep scowl, and whose blue eyes bore a look of contemptuous hatred.

The sight at first alarmed Edward, but, in a moment, he was amused. Here, then, was proof of his earlier surmise; the barbarians were indeed jealous of his presence. He had only to look at the grim expression of this Nordic primitive to see his effect on lesser men. The man was seething and terrified at the same time; here was someone to displace his dominance, and he knew it. No longer would brute strength put the Nord in a place of superiority; no more would he intimidate a helpless woman by his sheer physical power. No indeed...now the Nord had to deal with something else entirely; he had to face intelligence, refinement, true nobility...he was now pitted against one who had mental prowess as well as physical on his side.

Edward couldn't repress a grin. He almost felt sorry for the barbarian. He was sure that, until his own arrival, the Nord had felt secure in his pursuit of Helgara. But now...well, his delusions had been shattered by not a mere equal, but by one infinitely superior to him. The Imperial was sure that the petty illusions the Nord had built up in his own mind had come crashing to ruin all about him so soon as a man of real sophistication, class and intelligence had arrived.

Edward was sure of all of these things despite not knowing who this Nord was, or having any proof beyond his conjecture that the other man was interested in Helgara. To Edward's mind, however, all the primitives of the fortress must be falling all over themselves in vain attempts to woo his goddess; and, since the Nord was staring so unpleasantly at him, this must surely be evidence of that conjecture.

Unfortunately for the Imperial, however, though his main premise regarding the Nord -- that he was interested in Helgara, and jealous of Edward's attentions to her -- was correct, he had miscalculated in several critical particulars. Indeed, what was about to happen next might have been obviated had Edward not been so lost in pompous, self-congratulatory reverie, but alas, such was price of the Imperial's disposition for self-flattery. So, having misconstrued the Nord's glare as one akin to the wild animal who snarls, powerless and from a distance, at the human who has slaughtered and feasted on his prey, he felt free to sneer at the other man's misfortune. This mistake, more than any other, would prove his undoing.

The Nord, at seeing his toothy grin, turned a deep crimson color. He sat in place for a moment, trembling visibly with what could only be rage of the strongest sort; and then, in an instant, he had crossed the room and was upon Edward.

Fists as thick and heavy as tree trunks smashed the Imperial once, twice, and again, and so fast that he'd hardly time to process what was happening. He'd no time to react between blows, save to scream, and he was only vaguely aware of pain so intense that it felt as if his body was collapsing. By time the third strike hit him, Edward was already unconscious.


	133. Chapter 133

How many fools has that treacherous lecher displaced?

How many noble hearts laid forever to rest?

How many minds have those whimsical illusions graced,

Only to come undone when Love is put to the test?

-- From the Lovelorn Poet's _A Thousand Broken Hearts, _Edition the First

Chapter One Hundred and Thirty-Three

Roliand looked down on the crumpled, bloody form of the Imperial, and willed himself to stop hitting. It was not an easy thing to do, for a blinding rage had taken over. He was a Nord in every sense of the word, and Nords did nothing lightly; everything was with passion -- be it loving, drinking, or fighting. Some people called them headstrong; he preferred to think of them as full of life, unlike the tepid lowlanders. But right now, it was not life that drove him; it was murder, dark and deadly as a moonless winter night in the mountains of Skyriim.

So it was with great effort that Roliand the Nord forced himself to leave off whilst the Imperial still drew breath, and we would be wrong indeed to think lightly of the intensity of his struggle. In a sense, it was the very virtue that Edward doubted Nords possessed -- humanity -- that stayed his hand from breaking the Imperial into a thousand pieces; for his anger was so hot and blinding that he had lost sight of all but this. And so, putting aside the rage he felt at seeing the sneer of a man who would not leave his woman alone, Roliand stopped hitting as Edward collapsed.

As the Imperial settled into a pool of his own blood, the Nord's senses began to return, and the anger slowly ebbed away. Remorse began to seep in to replace fury at the sight of the battered body. How could he, man of war, strength and valor, justify pummeling such a weak, frail creature as this, after all? Helgara had made clear that she was ready, willing and able to defend herself against the Imperial, should the need arise; and, seeing how quickly he'd gone down, Roliand did not doubt that it would have been the easiest thing in the world for her to do.

Shame filled him. He had acted against his woman's wishes; she had specifically instructed him not to touch the Imperial. And, he knew, he hadn't done it because he feared for her safety or well-being. No...he had done it because the man had dared to pursue his woman, and then to smile at him. But, for all that, he had betrayed Helgara's trust -- and there was no excuse for that, whatever the provocation.

He was her man, and he owed her trustworthiness. They were not married, by the Empire's definition, but their bond was stronger than that. They were bound by the customs of the old gods and the old ways. She was his woman, and he was her man. And he had broken her trust.

He shivered. It was a serious thing, to break faith with your partner. In revenging his own wounded pride, he risked losing what mattered most to him in the world; for Helgara would be justified in seeing this as breech of their bond. Would she?

Roliand would not wait long to find out, for the Imperial's screams had brought many of the Blades. Helgara was amongst them.

Upon entering the room, she stared for a moment at the body on the ground. Then, her eyes flashing, she glared at Roliand.


	134. Chapter 134

Next to murders and intrigues of the court,

Affairs of the heart seem to draw the liveliest interest.

And yet people should mind their own business

For what concern are these matters except to those involved?

-- An excerpt from a piece translated in the scholarly work "_Writings of Old, Dead People_"

Chapter One Hundred and Thirty-Four

The row between Roliand and Helgara, in the presence of the "other man" -- or, at least, the bleeding, unconscious heap that he'd become -- had stirred more excitement in Cloud Ruler Temple than even the arrival of the Emperor had.

There were those firmly on the side of the wronged man, who had, in a fit of jealous rage, beaten to a pulp his woman's lover, only to be cast aside by the furious woman. Then there were those who knew the facts, of whom there were two clearly divided camps -- those who thought Helgara was right for being furious at Roliand breaking his word, and those who sympathized for both, understanding Helgara's fury and Roliand's jealousy. Interestingly enough, there were none present who sympathized with Edward.

Even as Edward lay swooning on the floorboards, gossip spread like wildfire. Fact and fiction were passed along in equal parts, and, before an hour was passed, no one knew anything about what had happened beyond the bare facts: Edward had been attacked by Roliand in a fit of jealous rage, and Roliand had been firmly put in his place by Helgara. Whether or not Helgara was complicit was less well known -- which only heightened the interest that was felt by all.

It was while these gossiping Blades chattered so idly that Martin, having read all there was to find in the extensive library about the Mythic Dawn and needing some distraction to take his mind off of Docada's untimely end, went in search of Edward. Coming at last upon the woozy heap, he stared in astonishment. "Edward! What happened here?"

A nearby Blade, his lips curved downwards in a suspicious manner that seemed to indicate that he was hiding a smirk, answered, "I believe he fell, my lord."

"Fell?"

"That's right, sir," another voice piped up.

"You'll have to check with Roliand for the particulars -- he found him, I believe," the first continued.

Martin issued orders for a healing potion to be fetched, and for Roliand to come to him. The Nord hesitatingly obeyed, whilst the fortress healer grumbled about "wasting a potion that might save a life someday over a few minor cuts and bruises."

"You wanted to speak with me, my liege?"

"Yes, Roliand," Martin answered, his brow creased with concern. "They tell me Edward fell, and that you saw it?"

"Umm...that's right, my lord," the Nord answered.

"But...but how?"

"Well, he was...quite distracted."

"About?"

Here, the Nord colored. "He seemed to imagine that one of the Blades fancied him, sir."

"Oh, I see," Martin nodded, sighing. There was nothing suspicious about that accusation, after all. "But how did he fall?"

"He...wasn't looking where he was going, and tripped," the Nord lied.

Martin frowned. That seemed like something that Edward would do, too. "Hmm...perhaps we should look into some safety measures..." he thought out loud.

"Sir?"

"Well, it seems people keep falling or tripping. First Docada, now Edward."

"Oh, yes sir. But...well, perhaps its just that they are not used to the fortress?"

"Well, that's all well and good to say, but it's already cost one life."

Roliand made no response. At that moment, Edward stirred, no doubt as the healing potion took effect. The Nord shifted uncomfortably, but Martin's face lit up.

"Edward!" he greeted.

The Imperial blinked slowly, and then let out a whimper. Opening his eyes, he blinked again, and then turned an accusatory gaze at Roliand. "Murderer!" he croaked.

The word was not quite comprehensible to Martin, who asked, "What?"

"Murderer! He tried to kill me!" Edward answered.

"Who? Roliand?" Martin asked, trying to keep the skepticism out of his voice. Surely a Blade, a Knight of the Emperor's, wouldn't try to murder the Emperor's friend. And yet why was Edward claiming so?

"Yes! He did!"Edward exclaimed, rising with an air of feebleness so exaggerated that it had to be put on.

Martin turned to the Nord, who flushed and answered, "Of course I didn't! He fell!"

"Fell?" Edward spit out. "You tried to kill me!"

"Kill him? Well, that's just preposterous, my lord! I did no such thing!"

His eyes going from one to the other, Martin tried to deduce who was telling the truth. He was torn by mixed inclinations. On the one hand, he thought it right to believe his friend; and on the other, he felt he should believe the word of a Knight. On the one hand, he felt Edward, though exaggerating, was accusing too sincerely to be lying; and on the other, he knew his friend well enough to know that he was given to frequent falsities.

"My lord, if I may," one of the other Blades put in, "I think Sir Edward was...well, so distracted in thought that he didn't look where he was going, and fell."

"You liar!" Edward roared, dropping the pretense of injured feebleness altogether as spittle flew from his mouth.

"And, perhaps in a delusional state from the fall, seeing as how he and Roliand were rivals for the hand of the same girl, probably dreamt of this story," the other Blade continued.

Dragonheart considered these words for a moment, as this explanation seemed to settle all of his doubts -- Edward's seeming belief in his own words, the Knight's denial, and the other men's testimony.

Edward, meanwhile, answered hotly, "Rivals? You mean he was deathly afraid of me, and jealous, because he knew that he didn't stand a chance next to a man like me!"

These words cinched the matter in Martin's mind, and he nodded. "Well, be that as it may, my friend, I think you are misjudging Roliand."

Edward stared at his Emperor, fury and disbelief sweeping his features in turns.


	135. Chapter 135

I ponder fools and gods --  
Ah, but what an oxymoronic thought!  
For who or what but fools,  
Would choose as they have chosen?  
-- Excerpt from _On the Selection of the Messenger: a History of the Oblivion Crisis_

Chapter One Hundred and Thirty-Five

The snow was beginning to fall so fast and heavy that it was impossible to see more than a few feet in front of one. Edward, his back to the fortress, was shivering profusely; the chattering of his teeth and the sharp, disjointed intake of his breath made an interesting song of sorts, offering up a fairly accurate portrayal of his comfort level.

Yet, despite the fact that he was absolutely freezing, Edward refused to return to the building. He had been misused, not only by the filthy barbarians, but by the Emperor as well; and he would freeze to death if need be before returning, groveling.

This might seem a harsh reaction to having been told that he had dreamt the attack, and that he could not in turn murder Roliand; but, in Edward's mind, it was a mild one. Indeed, had not there been dozens of Blades who would have no doubt, driven by their barbarian instincts, crashed down upon him in an instant, he would have taken this matter up with the Emperor himself -- him, and his fists. Even knowing that certain death awaited should he attack the insolent Emperor, he had had to fight hard to restrain his longing for vengeance.

So, standing with his back to the stone building and staring into the white haze of falling snow, Edward gave himself over wholly to melancholy thoughts. He was at a point in his reflections where he was contemplating how it would make the "_disloyal bastard of an emperor_" feel if he were to follow the same path that Docada had taken -- over the side, and off the cliff. His suffering and humiliation would at least be at an end then; and how much suffering and humiliation had he endured, after all? Thrown in jail, surpassed by his servant, kicked out of the Dark Brotherhood, kicked out of the Mythic Dawn...

Edward started as an idea struck him. It all made perfect sense, now -- of course the Mythic Dawn had thought he'd double crossed them back then. After all, he was riding around with the Emperor in tow all that time. But now...now that he _knew_ who the Emperor was, perhaps he would be able to kill him this time. Then he could rejoin the Mythic Dawn, couldn't he? And he had valuable information about the Blades as well, including one of their secret hideouts -- information that might prove useful to the Dawn.

He was positively grinning with malicious delight when a whinny, sounding not half a dozen yards away, roused him from his reverie. Peering into the snow, he called, "Hello? Whose there?"

"Who do you think?" the annoyed voice of Friar Jauffre answered.

Edward shivered, and suddenly his calculations seemed wrong. In all of his planning, he'd forgotten that one variable who seemed likely to throw everything off...Friar Jauffre. "Fr...Friar Jauffre?" he stammered. "It's you!"

"Of course it's me!" the monk's voice called.

Edward stared into the snow in the direction of that sound, and was at last able to make out a faint shape. It grew darker and clearer, and suddenly it seemed that Friar Jauffre and his band of searchers were almost on top of Edward. Pulling back until he was again hugging the fortress walls, the Imperial grimaced as he noted a familiar red coloration staining the bottom of Jauffre's saddlebags. "You found Docada, then?" he asked hopefully.

"No," the monk returned, his tone expressive of annoyance. "We searched for two and a half days for that blasted elf...up and down this mountainside...nowhere to be found."

Edward blinked. "But...but surely...where could he have gone?"

Jauffre shrugged. "Donno...but it doesn't really matter, seeing as how I can't have his head anyway."

This brought Edward's thoughts back to the red saddlebags. "Well then...what is that you're carrying?"

"Ah!" Jauffre answered, his tone taking on a lighter, more cheerful aspect. "We happened to come across a few bears."

This said, the monk shouted orders for the gates to open, and he and his entourage rode past and entered the fortress.


	136. Chapter 136

Men, how like mice they are  
To catch them, every one...  
Throw a fat rat into their midst  
Distract them, then pounce...  
-- From _Amused Musings of Mehrunes_, First Edition

Chapter One Hundred and Thirty-Six

Finally, too cold to continue pouting, Edward returned to the fortress. Jauffre's entrance, he decided, would provide distraction enough for this; and, anyway, he was too frozen to stay outside any longer.

He was in time to hear Jauffre describing his party's futile search for the elf, and how they had searched nonstop for two days, coming across neither hide nor hair of the elf. "But we did happen across a few bears, and dispatched of them in a manner which would make your majesty proud," he declared with a triumphant air. Lifting the heavy saddlebag as though it was as light as a feather, he added, "And brought back the trophies for your majesty's use."

Martin's face was creased with worry. "This is terrible," he said. "It was bad enough that he fell-"

"Jumped, my liege," Jauffre corrected.

Martin's frown increased. "_Fell_," he answered, "as neither of us knows for sure any differently." Jauffre sighed, like a father impatient with a stubborn son; the Emperor continued. "But I can't believe that we can't even find his body to give him a proper burial. He was one of my Knights, after all."

"But sir?" one Blade ventured.

"Yes?"

"Well, surely...that is, wouldn't he fall under the same policy as the Blades?"

Martin shrugged. "I don't see why not."

Jauffre's eyes lit up, and the Blade continued, "Well, then, sir, Grandmaster Jauffre's policy is that, if we're stupid enough to die, he cuts our heads off and puts them on pikes near the battlefield, or the nearest Blade property."

Martin stared at the other man, a touch of pale coming to his cheeks. "What?"

"Yes sir," the Blade nodded. "So...well, the elf seems to have gotten off easy, so there is perhaps no reason to worry about his body?"

"Is that true, Jauffre?" Martin asked, turning to the Grandmaster with disbelieving eyes.

"Well, sir, as a matter of fact, it is."

"You mean...you decapitate your comrades?" the Emperor asked, his eyebrows raised in astonishment.

"Only the dead ones, my liege," Jauffre explained.

"But...you don't honor the dead?"

"_Honor_?" the monk almost spit out. "Honor a man stupid enough to get his self killed?"

Martin stared in astonishment. "But what of Brotherhood? What of Friendship? Doesn't that extend beyond the grave? And surely – not that it should matter anyway – not all deaths are the result of stupidity?"

The monk shrugged in a manner that seemed to indicate that he disagreed with the Emperor's assertion, but he said, "It's possible, I suppose, but I've yet to see it happen."

"What of the Emperor?" Martin demanded. "What of Uriel Septim, my...father?"

Jauffre shifted. "Well, of course, Emperors aren't the same as the rest of us. We can be stupid, but they never are, naturally."

Martin frowned at the monk. "Look here, Jauffre, that's a barbarous practice. I want you to revise it. I want you to follow the Legion's example...honoring the fallen!"

The Grandmaster stared at his Emperor, his mouth half open in the greatest astonishment. "Revisit?" he sputtered.

"That's right."

"But...my liege! It's what keeps us together! It motivates us! It pushes us to survive. Doesn't it, men?" Jauffre demanded, turning fiercely to the Blades about him.

"Yes sir."

"Absolutely!"

"Without question."

Martin shook his, clearly not about to budge. "No," he said firmly. "The Legion does well enough – they're motivated, and loyal, and they survive. And they don't cut up their dead comrades. You will revisit the policy, Jauffre, and that's an order."

Jauffre's face turned purple and crimson with obvious rage. Answering in a half strangled way, he said, "Yes, my liege. As you command."


	137. Chapter 137

The sorrows of a man whose king is unreasonable;

Oh, words cannot express how great are they.

Yet to refuse or protest such treatment is treasonable,

So his misery compounds with every day.

-- _The Sorrows of the Ruled_, Edition the First

Chapter One Hundred and Thirty-Seven

Those Blades who were not engaged elsewhere or on patrol were seated around the large dining table. The atmosphere was glum, and the expressions of those present glummer yet.

"Is he trying to ruin us?" one woman asked.

"To make us like the Legion?" another commented, spitting the last word out with great disdain. "The _Legion_?"

Jauffre growled in that low, furious way that was characteristic of him when expressing grave annoyance.

"It's unbelievable," Helgara agreed. "He...he can't be serious!"

"He is," another contradicted angrily.

"But what of it? We all make mistakes," Roliand declared, turning plaintive eyes to the Nord beauty. She cast a cold glance at him, under which he flinched.

"He's going to destroy us," another Blade disagreed.

"And all because of Belisarius, and his big mouth," another put in.

It was now the turn of the large Imperial referenced to flinch. "I thought...I was trying to help!" he protested.

Jauffre growled again. "It's madness," he said. "Instead of honoring the brave and wise, the living, we're to be reduced to honoring the weak, those who degraded themselves and all of us. Honoring them!"

Everyone murmured agreement, and Helgara inquired, "But we're not going to actually do it, are we? I mean, we can't, can we?"

Jauffre sighed a throaty, growling noise. "We've no choice," he answered. "The Emperor's command is the Emperor's command."

"But...but surely!"

"No," he shook his head. "No matter how degrading, no matter how much the senses revolt and pride suffers, no matter how disgusting the task at hand...if the Emperor commands it, we must obey."

A collective sigh went up from the group, and all eyes stared glumly into the roaring fire.

Meanwhile, two rooms away, Martin was staring into his fireplace, watching the flames dance implacably. Fire was like that...nothing could shake it, it seemed, and nothing could move it. The flames would dance on, whatever sorrow, whatever danger, whatever trials men endured.

The Emperor sighed, staring down at the ring he held. His heart filled with a strange combination of emotions as he beheld that little crest. Foremost was sorrow, for the loss of a friend who had, during their long stay as Friar Jauffre's pupils, been like an older, wiser brother to him. And sorrow, too, for the girl...the sweet, beautiful girl...who had given him that ring; whose eyes had filled with sadness as she related news of Matthieus' death; whose plaintive eyes he could still see. And somewhere, lost in these emotions, was the whispered wish that those gentle eyes might see him as something more than the friend of a dead love; and the unspoken desire to shield that gentle woman, whose beautiful eyes had conveyed so much hurt, forevermore from sadness and sorrow.

Then, shaking his head in frustration at himself, Martin rose and put the ring in his pocket. He had sworn to avenge Matthieus and restore to Felicity his ring; and before that task was even complete, he was thinking...what? He wasn't sure, but he felt almost guilty nonetheless. Matthieus was his friend, his best friend. "_But Matthieus is dead._"

He paced agitatedly, his mind and heart torn. Half of him knew that these feelings, this agitation of his heart, was one-sided, something foolish that he'd dreamt up, and so it didn't matter anyway; and the other half felt guilty regardless. Wasn't it dishonorable to even consider the woman his friend loved – even if his friend was dead? But, then, the living weren't bound to the dead; so how was it wrong?

Martin stared out of his window into the blanket of falling snow that obscured everything from sight, and sighed. Somehow, his heart felt like that – behind an ever changing veil, but a veil that obscured his path from him nonetheless.


	138. Chapter 138

The ways of men are beyond comprehension,  
And the paths of Divines stranger yet.  
For the bunglings of this bounder astound,  
But who was fool enough to choose him?  
-- From _God in Exile_, collective thoughts of Tiber Septim, after the Eight chose Uriel rather than he to complete their divine body

Chapter One Hundred and Thirty-Eight

Aside from those on patrol, the fortress was silent. Most were sleeping, or lost in thought as they attempted to drift off to sleep. At first, no one noted the distant sound of a thin, high wail; but as it grew nearer and nearer, it became harder and harder to ignore.

Edward, tossing in a fitful sleep, heard it as well as all the rest, but he heard it as a strange addition to his dream. At present, he was approaching the royal throne for his official knighthood. His conscience, however, had been plaguing him as he approached the Emperor – and, somehow, Martin had been able to read his thoughts.

"_So you __**did**__ try to murder Docada?_" the Emperor in Edward's dream demanded.

"_But it wasn't my idea!_" the phantom Edward answered. "_I had no choice! Jauffre would have killed me!_"

"_My Liege, that's a lie!_" the monk denied, unsheathing his katana. "_Let me have his head for lying to you, my Lord!_"

It was then that the high wail entered Edward's thoughts. It seemed to rattle through the windows and ceiling of the throne room, and echo off the walls. "_My liege! My Emperor! I am returned, oh my Emperor! I have not forsaken you, my king!_"

Edward flinched at that sound, that voice. "_Impossible! He's...its...dead!_"

At that moment, a hand of flesh and blood shook the Imperial, and roused him from his sleep. He awoke panting and sweating, thanking all the gods that that voice, that hated voice, was only a phantom of sleep.

"Edward, do you hear that?" a voice at his side demanded.

Turning to see the Emperor, Edward frowned. "Hear? What?"

"Listen!"

For a moment, he could hear nothing beyond the thunder of blood pulsing through his head, and his own jagged breath. But then, a terrible pallor coming to his cheeks, he started. The voice! It was there!

"Docada!" the Emperor nodded. "He's alive!"

Edward gulped.

"And he must be near!"

"Near?" Edward stammered.

"Yes – for us to hear his voice even in here, he must be close."

Edward frowned. It seemed to him that, if the elf chose, his voice could be heard from one end of Cyrodiil to the other.

"No wonder Jauffre didn't find a body – he wasn't dead!"

"Oh good..."

"Come! We've got to mount a search to find him. He could be injured – and we don't want him freezing to death in this blizzard."

"Oh no," Edward agreed wanly. "No, we wouldn't want that."


	139. Chapter 139

Bruma Bandits Reported Dead, Missing Heads!

Our correspondent in Bruma writes to tell us that a band of outlaws well known for plaguing the Jerral mountains around that city have been found dead by a traveling merchant. A dozen men, bereft of heads, were found in what seemed to be a battlefield. What was more interesting was that six trails of blood led away from the carnage. It is speculated that six vigilantes, or, perhaps, competing bandits dispatched of these fellows; but what they would want with these men's heads is utterly unclear. Unfortunately, a blizzard obscured the trails of blood before they could be traced to their final destination, and the doers of this deed assisted and thanked. Bruma remains on the lookout for the six brave fighters who single-handedly took down this terrible band of outlaws.

-- Black Horse Courier, Special News Bulletin

Chapter One Hundred and Thirty-Nine

A search party had proved unnecessary, for the elf was indeed close at hand; he'd been just outside of the gates, in fact. After two days of calling out for help, however, his voice had weakened...a bit. He still prattled on, and was at the present coming to the end of – in Edward's mind, at least – a disgustingly long tribute to the Emperor.

"But why did you leave in the first place, Docada?" Martin asked.

Edward cringed. That was the one question he didn't want to hear, ever. "_Naturally the one that the bastard has to ask_," he thought.

Docada stared in wonder at his king. "Then...you mean, you didn't lock me in there?"

"What?" Martin asked, his surprise at this question plainly evident.

"I thought...that is, after the things that the old Champion did...I just assumed that you had locked me into the ruin as...well, a test or something of that nature."

"Lock you in? Docada, what are you talking about?!"

The snow-covered elf stared in stupefaction at the Emperor, while the yellow of his hair just started to peek through the melting ice that covered it. "Well the door...it was sealed up...I thought..."

Martin's eyes flew to Jauffre and Edward. "Sealed? While Docada was in there?!"

Edward felt ready to collapse in fright, but Jauffre was apparently unfazed. "Certainly not, your majesty," he lied. "We sealed it only when you told us!"

Martin frowned, apparently in recollection. "After _I_ told you?"

"That's right, my lord. You told us to seal the door since you and the elf were out. Naturally, Edward and I obeyed your command. Isn't that right, Edward?"

The Imperial, finding fear choking his voice, hastened to nod in agreement.

"Surely I didn't..." Martin started, his brow creasing. "I must have said...at least _meant_..."

"I'm terribly sorry, my lord," Jauffre continued. "If we erred in sealing the door...it might have been that there was some confusion in communication, but we never would have done it if we thought the elf was in there."

"No, of course not," Martin nodded, a mortified expression on his face. "That must mean...oh dear. I'm sorry, Docada...I wasn't paying much attention, I'm afraid..."

"Never fear, my liege!" the elf declared. "I've faced worse before -- and at least this was an accident!"

"Yes, but a terrible one," Martin, still pale from Jauffre's false revelation, answered. "I can't believe...what sort of a king am I going to make, if I make mistakes like this?"

Edward and Jauffre hastened to reassure the Emperor that this was a minor oversight, and nothing at all to worry about; but they were drowned out by the persistent voice of the elf. "Oh, my liege, what honor, what pride, what gratitude you fill this simple heart with, to know that you, the mightiest and greatest of all kings and champions who ever lived or who will ever live should be concerned with such an insignificant and lowly life as mine. If it be in my power, oh great one, let me assure you that you will be the noblest, the best, the most loved and worshiped Emperor! Any man -- any! -- would gladly die in that ruin to know that they have been deemed worthy of your majesty's favor! What a privilege, to freeze or starve or dehydrate in the dank underground, if only your highness would think well of one; what honor, to die so, to merit one thought from the noblest of kings! If all of your subjects were to find themselves in such a plight, my liege, I assure you that we would deem it an honor beyond compare!"

Martin seemed no more cheered by these words than he had been before they were spoken; but for his part, Edward was too busy fighting the vomit that threatened to spill out to take much note.


	140. Chapter 140

Ladies' Bane, that's his name;

Women don't stand a chance,

Every time, it's the same:

They succumb to that glance.

-- _Ladies' Bane_, a popular song

Chapter One Hundred and Forty

Having once more successfully escaped ruin, Edward had returned to his pursuit of Helgara. Luck, it was clear, was on his side, and this seemed as good a time as any for the chase. He'd heard rumors throughout the fortress that she had told one of the Nords off good and proper; and this he took to be confirmation that she had succumbed to his charms, and that all other men now seemed as naught in her eyes when compared to him.

So, bright and early the next morning, he decided to follow her about. It so happened that she had the watch; he was walking it with her.

"A beautiful sunrise, wasn't it?"

She made no response, but continued walking.

Hastening to keep up, Edward tried again. "At least it stopped snowing."

Other than her footfalls on the stone, Helgara made not a sound.

"It's kind of pretty up here – I mean, aside from the frigidity and the locals and the isolation. But you can see for so far. Although you're still seeing mostly just mountains and rock and snow." He shivered. "It's a nice view of the sky though...at least when it's not snowing." He frowned. This clearly wasn't a good topic to pursue, since there was not much worth saying that he could say about it.

She was still silent, although he thought he noted a grimace on her face.

"_Perfect...she _does_ hate these damned mountains!_" he thought. Speaking aloud, and attempting nonchalance, he declared, "But I suppose a beautiful girl like you must feel suffocated up here, hidden away in the mountains, away from civilization."

"Not at all," she answered curtly. "There's no place freer than the solitude of the mountains."

"Oh," Edward nodded. "Well, yes...but, don't you...I mean, it has to be lonely with no one for company."

She snorted. "Are you stupid, or did you miss the fortress full of soldiers?" she asked.

"Well, I mean...you know, no one of...well, equal intelligence."

She paused in her walking to stare at him with her left eyebrow raised. "Are you saying I'm dumb?"

"No!" Edward hastened to assure her.

"That's what I thought," she nodded. "So you're calling my fellow Blades stupid?"

He shrugged, grinning in an arrogant way. "You can use whatever word you like, of course, but..."

Before he finished, Helgara's fist had traveled the distance between her side and his face. Reeling backwards as her gauntleted hand impacted with his jaw, Edward's eyes opened wide. Had she just...hit him?

This wondering thought, however, was pushed aside by a more pressing matter; in stumbling backwards, he had suddenly plunged over the edge of the wall. He caught the surprise in Helgana's eyes as he feet met the thin air; and then he saw nothing but stones moving by him quickly, and the sky overhead. This was replaced an instant later by an overpowering agony that temporarily blinded his senses; and then he found himself staring up at the walls of the fortress from the ground below, pain shooting through his entire body.

Groaning in misery, he tried to move; but his agonized senses revolted. "Help!" he called out. "Help me!"


	141. Chapter 141

Wretched man is he,

Who betrays his king's confidence.

While fortunate is he,

Who keeps faith with his ruler.

-- _Guide to the Ruled_, excerpt from Chapter the First

Chapter One Hundred and Forty-One

Groaning, Edward glanced at the crowd that had gathered around his sick bed. To his dismay, he found more amused faces than sympathetic ones. In fact, he counted only one sympathetic expression in the entire crowd, and that came from Martin.

"Not another fall?" the Emperor asked.

"No!" Edward glared. "Not that the other one was a fall...but that crazy Nord barbarian attacked me, and shoved me off the wall!" Beautiful or not, Helgara had caused him so much agony that at the moment he would gladly see her hanging from the walls of the fortress.

"What?" the Nord scoffed. "Attack _him_? Why would I dirty my hands, much less waste my time?"

Martin's eyes traveled from the girl's dismissive expression to Edward's face.

"Well...well, because she wants me!" Edward lied. "She was furious that I...that I refused her advances!"

Martin cleared his throat. "I think it's possible that you hit your head again, Edward my friend."

"Hit his head? I think he's lost his mind!" Docada snickered.

"I'll say," Helgara nodded.

Edward glared at the elf and the Emperor. "It's true!" he exclaimed. "She hasn't let me be since I got here! She's been chasing me around day and night!"

At this point, Roliand, who was one of the many onlookers, stepped forward. "You watch your lying mouth, you Imperial dog!" he snarled. Turning to the Emperor, he said, "This filthy animal has been chasing _her_ since he got here. Helgara's tried to make it clear to him that she's not interested, but he won't take a hint. That's the reason that I..." Here the Nord flushed.

"That you?"

Falling to one knee, his head bowed, Roliand declared in a voice laden with grief, "Punish me as I deserve, my Emperor...but I fear that I've deceived you."

"Deceived me?"

"Yes, my liege. The other day, when the swine fell? He didn't fall. That is, he did fall, but only after...the fall wasn't the reason for his injuries."

"Oh?"

"No," the Nord answered, shaking his bowed head. "You see, he had been harassing Helgara...and she made me promise not to touch him, since he is your friend. But then...then he smiled at me, in such a condescending, arrogant, devious way...such a way that I cannot even describe, except that I wanted to kill him for it."

Martin stared at the bowed figure before him in wonder. "Kill him? But why?"

"Because...because Helgara is my woman...that is, she was...before I...before I attacked that pig."

"I told you!" Edward interrupted triumphantly. "I told you the savage attacked me!"

"And then, once I had hit him...I realized what I had done...with him being your friend, and me having given my word to Helgara, and...oh, your majesty! Please, take mercy and put me out of my suffering! Cut off my head, that I may stand as a reminder to all to avoid the shame I have brought upon myself!"

Martin cleared his throat, apparently still confused by this explanation – no doubt all the more so by the wretched creature before him, quiet sobs wracking his thick frame as he pleaded for death. "Cut off your head?"

"Yes, my lord! I have deceived you, and lost all that was good in my life. I am disgraced, without my honor and without my love. Please, my king – grant me mercy!"

At this point, Helgara also fell to her knees, tears streaming down her cheeks. "Oh, your majesty! Please, forgive him! It was not his fault! I should have dealt with that fool before! Please, my king, don't kill him! Please, say that you forgive him! Punish me, if you must punish someone; for it was I who made him swear not to touch your friend. See what I have done to him? See how I've made him suffer? Oh, please, great king! Forgive him!"

"A confession!" Edward squealed in delight. "A confession from both of them! See what I've said? Now that you have it, you must kill them both!"

Martin simply stared at the three, his face a mask of astonishment.


	142. Chapter 142

When leniency is granted,

And forgiveness attained,

Only the fool snubs the offering.

-- _Guide to the Ruled_, excerpt from Chapter the First

Chapter One Hundred and Forty-Two

After reviewing and clarifying all that had been said, Martin stared at the trio before him with an expression of surprise on his face. "It's a serious offense," he declared at length, "for a Knight to lie to his Emperor."

Roliand nodded, his face expressive of the deepest remorse and penitence.

"And not a little thing for him to attack the Emperor's friend."

The two Nords stayed motionless, their heads bowed in dismayed silence; but Edward was nodding eagerly. "Yes! To try to kill him, in fact, in fits of murderous, barbarian rage!"

Turning his eyes to the gleeful Imperial, the Emperor continued, "But it's also a serious offense for one to abuse his position as the Emperor's friend to come between a husband and wife. Pardon me...in the Nord custom, a man and woman."

Edward blinked at this reproof. "But I...she...she was the one coming after _me_!"

Martin cleared his throat and continued, "Nonetheless, if a man lies to the Emperor, that carries a serious consequence. However, as I think on the matter, I don't recall a _lie_ being told. Certain truths were _withheld_, but I don't believe an actual lie was uttered." He frowned as Roliand and Helgara raised wondering eyes to their king. "And, while the intent was deception...in light of the extenuating circumstances, and, of course, accompanied by an assurance that a similar occurrence would never take place...I think I would overlook the...miscommunication." The Nord's face was blank astonishment, and Martin smiled to himself at the expression. However, keeping a serious exterior, he continued, "Would I have your word, Roliand, that you would never attempt such a deception again?"

Nodding hastily, the Knight answered, "Of course, my liege!"

Hearing a gurgling sound issue forth from Edward, Martin hastened on. "Then, that leaves us with only the issue of the attack on Edward."

"The attack**s**!" the Imperial hissed. "These filthy Nords would have killed me – murdered me, the Emperor's own friend! And all to cover up the shameless lust of a wanton barbarian wench, who couldn't deal with the fact that I wanted nothing to do with her!"

Martin cleared his throat, even as he saw purplish crimson paint Roliand's cheeks, and disgust cover Helgara's features. "I think this situation is really...well, a misunderstanding." Edward's eyes opened wide, and he uttered a half strangled exclamation. Ignoring this, the Emperor continued. "Roliand was certainly in the wrong, but, I think, the same could be said for..." Seeing Edward's eyes continue to grow, Martin thought it best to use a different expression, ere his friend's eyes suddenly pop out of his head. "That is, mistakes were made all around. I think a sincere apology from all sides would-"

"Apology?!" Edward roared. "Apologize to that filthy barbarian? I'd sooner die! I'd sooner stick my head on one of Friar Jauffre's pikes!"


	143. Chapter 143

Silly of my followers, wasn't it,  
To be alarmed by the bunglings of such a ninny as Edward?  
He alone, of all of them, may yet prove  
The most useful in taking down those accursed Blades.  
-- _Contemplations of Mehrunes Dagon_

Chapter One Hundred and Forty-Three

Martin sighed. Being Emperor was not an easy thing. In trying to keep peace between the Blades and Edward, he'd almost started a bloodbath. Only his own swiftness, and a very powerful paralyzing spell, had stopped the wounded Imperial from launching what would surely have been a suicidal attack; and, even then, he'd had to very firmly tell his men to leave Edward be.

At present, the effects of the spell were wearing off whilst Edward remained in the infirmary. When they were gone, Martin would have to have a long talk with his friend, and again explain that -- now that he was Emperor -- threats against his life were liable to get the other man killed.

At that moment, a knock sounded on his door. "Come in."

Friar Jauffre emerged, bowing respectfully. "My lord?"

Nodding to a seat next to his own, Martin said, "Come, for I must talk with you."

The monk nodded and seated himself beside the king. "Yes, my liege?"

"I need your advice, Friar Jauffre."

"On anything in particular, my liege?"

"Yes...Edward."

"Ah! Well, my advice is to have his head and be done with it," Jauffre answered matter-of-factly.

Martin frowned at him. "What?"

"Your majesty asked for advice on what do about his threats earlier, did you not?"

"No, no," Martin shook his head. "I'm just going to...forgive those...results of a hit to the head and all that."

Jauffre sighed.

"What I wanted to talk to you about was...well, I was thinking that maybe we're not...not putting Edward's skills to the best use here."

Jauffre stared at the Emperor, an eyebrow raised. "Skills, my liege? What skills would those be? Running away? Hiding? Harassing real soldiers?"

Martin frowned again. "Of course not. I meant...well, his skills as an assassin."

A snort of laughter escaped the monk's lips, but he was otherwise silent.

"Seriously," the Emperor continued, "he was quite an able assassin, before he came here. And now...well, this is as much a change for him as it is me."

"Yes my liege, but, if I may, you are Emperor. And any man who threatens his Emperor needs to die."

Martin flinched at these words. It was hard to imagine himself giving orders to kill a man for issuing a silly threat. "Well...even if that were true in ordinary circumstances, surely Edward's circumstances merit an exception."

An eyebrow raised, Jauffre asked only, "How, if I may be so bold as to ask, my liege?"

"He is used to giving orders and having them obeyed. At least, most of the time...when conscience permitted. But anyway, now, suddenly, I am Emperor, and he must do what _I _say." Martin shrugged. "That is a change that takes some getting used to -- for me, who ended up with the better deal in this twist of fate. Think, then, of what a shock it is to Edward?"

The monk sighed again. "It wouldn't matter if he was the High Chancellor himself, my liege -- the greatest and the lowest alike are nothing compared to the Emperor. A man who threatens his king deserves death. Simple as that."

Martin frowned. "I'm afraid we'll have to agree to disagree on that, Friar Jauffre. But that wasn't what I called you here to discuss. I wanted to know if you had some task that might, perhaps, give Edward...you know, something to do? Something that would employ his skills and keep him..."

"Out of trouble?"

"Occupied," Martin finished.

Jauffre sighed in thought. "Well..." he answered slowly, "if you are determined to set a dangerous precedent that will surely feed into the atmosphere of treachery and intrigue that the Mythic Dawn have created, and grant impunity to the traitor, then I suppose there are a few things that he could do."

"Really?" Martin asked, his expression lighting up. He was sure that, once given some sense of purpose and accomplishment, Edward would again return to his old self.

"Oh yes."

"What did you have in mind?" the Emperor prodded. He knew better than to leave the tasks to Jauffre, with no input from himself.

"Well, for starters, the latrines have to be cleaned regularly..."

Martin frowned. "Jauffre! I want a real task...something that will help him feel a part of what we're doing here."

The monk stared at his Emperor with an expression of surprise. "But of course, my liege! I would think of nothing else! That _is _an important task. Why, if he were to take it on, he would free up my men for work befitting them – and think of what a contribution he'd be making to the smooth operation of this fortress then!"

Martin's frown intensified. "I'm serious, Jauffre."

"So am I, my king!"

Martin sighed. "Alright then, how about something _more_ useful?"

Jauffre's brow furrowed in thought. Then, his eyes lighting up, he asked, "Is he any good with a bow, my lord?"

"I don't know," Martin admitted, asking hopefully, "Why?"

"Well, I thought he might like to try his hand at keeping the larder stocked...there's enough game in these mountains to keep him busy...and we've got enough put away so that we won't starve for awhile yet..."

"No, no," Martin shook his head. "It has to be something better than that."

Spreading his hands in an exasperated manner, the monk answered, "I'm not really sure that there is anything else that he can do, and stay alive while doing-" He broke off suddenly, intaking his breath sharply. "I have it, my lord!"

"Yes?"

"I was going to send someone down to the Imperial City to check in Baurus...we haven't had his weekly report in a while. Why not send the traitor?"

Ignoring this appellation, Martin asked with no great warmth for the idea in his tone, "You mean, as a messenger?"

"Yes," Jauffre nodded, hastening to add, "that is, not just a messenger! You see, Baurus was sent to the City to track down a handful of Mythic Dawn spies that we had information on. And he hasn't reported back like he should have. So, this is...well, a critical task!"

Martin nodded, the idea suddenly seeming much better to him. "It sounds perfect...important, potentially dangerous, requiring skill..."

Jauffre listened with a raised eyebrow to this list, but said, "Put exactly as I would have put it, my liege."

"Good...set things up immediately for his departure, will you?"


	144. Chapter 144

The gods watch from on high,

Emperors from just below,

Whilst the rest suffer and die

With nothing for their lives to show.

-- _Wailing of the Exiled and Forsaken_

Chapter One Hundred and Forty-Four

Jauffre stood shaking his head as he watched Edward ride out of the gates of Cloud Ruler Temple. He was still a bit surprised by what an easy sell it had been to convince the Emperor that the trivial task he'd sent the Imperial on was in fact one of paramount importance. It was more or less a habit of Baurus' to be late with his reports; and a habit of Jauffre's to hound him about it until he sent them in, like a good soldier. But as for the actual importance of them, beyond conforming to regulations? The Friar couldn't help but chuckle at the thought.

"Sir?" a Blade's voice called to him, breaking him from his reverie.

"Yes?"

"The Emperor requests your presence, at your earliest convenience."

Jauffre nodded, heading toward the fortress interior. What, he wondered, was it this time? Another trivial task for some clueless nothing? "_Ye gods, not the elf!_" he thought. It was one thing to come up with a use for Edward; he was an Imperial, after all, and so not _utterly_ useless. But the elf?

Knocking on the Emperor's door with a sense of trepidation, Jauffre waited for the expected "Come in" before entering.

"Ahh, good, Grandmaster Jauffre!"

"My liege," he bowed.

"Come in. I've need of your assistance."

Jauffre grimaced inwardly, but asked, "How so, my lord?"

"I've been thinking, Jauffre...and it seems to me that I'm wasting time here in the mountains. Shouldn't I be reclaiming my throne? Pursuing the Mythic Dawn? Hunting down the murderers who killed my father and brothers?"

Jauffre stared in stupefaction at his king. "You, my liege?"

"Of course! I am Emperor, after all – shouldn't I be acting like it? Shouldn't I be out there, getting things done?"

The monk shook his head vigorously. "Absolutely not, my liege!"

As if shaken a bit by the stern surety in his voice, Martin asked simply, "Why?"

"Because it's not safe, my liege. Your father was in the palace – what should have been the safest place in the entire Imperial City – and still the dirty traitors found him."

Martin frowned. "But...my father was an old man, though, and the assassins took advantage of that...surely a younger man..."

"You forget the Princes, my lord. They were all young, your age and younger. And the assassins took them down too."

"But surely..."

"Do you not understand, my liege? If you, the last heir of the Septim blood, die, the Empire is lost. Lost!"

Martin nodded slowly, sighing. "I do understand," he said at length. "It's just...well, this indolence is maddening. I don't want to be sitting about doing nothing. I want to help my people!"

Jauffre frowned. "But you're the Emperor, my liege!"

"Exactly!" Martin answered. "And as such, I should be doing something!"

"What?"

"I don't know...but something! Something useful!"

The Grandmaster stared at the younger man, an eyebrow raised questioningly. "Useful? An Emperor, do something useful?"

Martin frowned at him. "Of course!"

"What exactly, my lord, if you don't mind my asking, do you think Emperors do?"

Martin stared blankly for a moment. "Well...well, they run the country. They stop invasions, they quell uprisings, they keep peace."

"No, my liege. Their servants do that."

"Then what do Emperors do?"

"Shall I be honest, my lord?"

"Of course!"

"Brutally?"

"Without reservation."

Jauffre shrugged. "Well, they drink. They gamble. They expend thousands of good Imperial lives – not to mention, the lives of the filthy barbarians – on useless wars to fuel their already overblown egos by expanding the borders of their empire another few yards or so. They run up mountains of debt that it takes their miserable slaves...subjects...years to pay off. They laze about in the lap of luxury and whine about their sorrows and difficulties, whilst beggars and peasants in their own lands go without bread, or a roof over their heads. They host lavish parties and waste even more of the treasury's resources entertaining a bunch of pompous, shallow, highborn nothings. They write the worst poetry imaginable, and force their poor, groveling servants to listen and applaud. They employ hundreds of tailors to make them clothes that they'll never wear. They have the finest stables and so many of the finest horses that they'll never be able to ride them all. They share their beds with every whore who comes along...In short, my lord, all the things your father did."

Martin stared in astonishment at him. "Friar Jauffre!"

Feeling himself coloring, Jauffre explained hurriedly, "Oh, my liege, not that I was saying...that is, _your _mother was an exception! _That_ was love! I meant the other whores." He flushed again at this correction. "No, no! I didn't mean that she was a whore. I meant that _they_ were whores, but that she-"

"Friar Jauffre!" Martin interrupted, his face burning crimson with anger. "How dare you even mention my mother in the same sentence?" Apparently he'd missed the implication at first, the idea seeming so far from the truth that it did not even occur to him until Jauffre stated it explicitly.

"Oh, no, my liege. I didn't. That is, I'm not. I was just saying that, in most cases...but in hers, it was love. As with the Countess Marianna. And Lady Valentina. Love. Yes, that was it."

Martin's brow creased in thought. "Then...are you saying that I have other brothers? Or that I might?"

Jauffre snorted. "_Might_? I'd wager half the country could be...that is, of course not, my liege."

Martin frowned. "If my father had so many...dalliances, what makes you sure?"

"It's simple, my lord...because, even if the women ended up pregnant, generally they were the sorts of women where it was anyone's guess who the father was."

Martin blinked in astonished disgust. "Jauffre...you're not saying..."

"Nothing, my liege. I am saying nothing, except to answer your question. And to distinguish why there is a difference between your mother -- grand, noble, honorable lady that she is -- and someone like...well, like the former Empress!"

"The Empress?!"

Jauffre stared at his Emperor, astonished by the question. "Of course...why, you don't actually think that Prince Prestonius was Uriel's son, do you? With that green skin – and an intellect the size of pea to go with it?" Jauffre laughed. "That was all put down to a skin disease, of course. And then Prince Gauis? Him and his pointy ears and red eyes? Again, another 'disorder' they called it." The monk shook his head. "No, my Emperor. You're probably the only son the Emperor really had – at least, that he knew about having."

"Well, at least Prince Meridius was my brother?"

Jauffre shook with laughter. "What, you mean the prince with a tail?"

"Another 'disorder'?"

"Exactly so, my liege. Another 'disorder.'"

Martin shuddered. "That's...well, rather a sordid family history, Jauffre."

The monk shrugged. "Call it what you will, my liege. I call it the workings of the Emperor and Empress. Nothing out of the common way there."

"And you want _me_ to be like this?" Martin wondered.

Jauffre shrugged again. "Why not?" Then, under his breath, he added, "It'd get you out of my hair, at least."

Martin frowned, and the monk suddenly worried if his tone had not been low enough. "I have no intention of 'getting out of your hair', Jauffre, until I've something useful to do. Not that you have much of that left, anyway."

"My liege?"

"Hair."

Jauffre gaped at these words, and a flush came to his cheeks. "My lord...that was...unworthy of you!"

Martin sighed. If he found it amazing that Jauffre could laugh off all of these terrible revelations, and yet be affronted by a mention of his baldness, he did not say so. Instead, he answered. "You're right...it was uncalled for. Still, I must have something to do! If I cannot yet go out and fight the Mythic Dawn myself, you must give me some task or I think I will go mad of boredom!"


	145. Chapter 145

Spare us the ramblings of the poet,

Save us from the drivel of his pen,

Rescue us from the ballads of the bard,

And protect us from the pretensions of the actor!

-- Unattributed protest against art

Chapter One Hundred and Forty-Five

Docada sighed. Martin was busy pouring over a stack of books and papers that Jauffre had procured for him – something about "doing something useful" – and had had no time to talk to him for the past two days.

Two of the Blades, Pelagius and Fortis, had volunteered to teach him some fighting techniques; but this had quickly come to an end with Docada whimpering all the way to the infirmary.

Now, he sat at a table, quill and parchment in hand, trying to summon the poetic essence from the depths of his soul. The muse was there; oh, he could feel her presence. And yet, somehow, the words hesitated to flow from the inspired mind of the poet to the crude parchment before him.

Furiously scratching out the few lines that he'd already scrawled, the elf crumpled the paper and threw it across the room with a high-pitched snarl of aggravation. "No, no, no, that's not it!" he whined to the air about him. He was looking for something grand, something beyond mere words, something that captured and conveyed what he felt at being here, amongst the greatest Knights of the Empire, in the service of the greatest Emperor in existence.

How, how, _how_ was he to put that into words, though?

* * *

Sequestered in his room, surrounded by dusty old manuscripts and books covered in strange runes, Martin glanced up from the papers he was working on. When he'd started, he had half suspected that Friar Jauffre had procured a random stack of "research materials" just to shut him up; but as soon as he'd stumbled onto a set of books buried in the midst of the others – the _Mythic Dawn Commentaries – _his opinion had changed.

There had been a note in the first book addressed to Friar Jauffre from Baurus, saying that he'd picked this book up in a local pawn shop, and that it might be useful. "_Useful_," he thought, smiling to himself. _"Useful_ _indeed!"_ They were likely to prove the downfall of the Mythic Dawn, at least if they ended up as important as he was sure they were.

Shifting a stack of papers to find a particular note, Dragonheart froze. A strange sound seeped into his solitude. Listening, his brow creased as he tried to place the noise. It was high and uneven, sounding something like the screech of a cat or the call of a tune-deaf bird.

As he listened, it seemed that he was able to pick out words; and then, an expression of dismay contorting his features, he understood.

* * *

A glow of pride touching his cheeks, Docada belted out the final words of his latest ballad.

_Of all the Emperor's men, they were the finest!_

_They, privileged enough to call the Emperor "guest";_

_Noble men, the truest soldiers for the truest King._

_Oh, what a band of warriors are these, the Blades!_

_Wonder you then, my friend, what causes me to sing?_

_In such company as this, loyal followers of my Emperor!_

_Oh, what a band of warriors are these, the Blades!_

Finishing, Docada glanced about at the open-mouthed men and women who surrounded him. He smiled broadly at this reaction, which, he assumed, was breathless appreciation. "It is my tribute to you, good Knights!" he declared. "But never fear – I've saved the best for last: of course, I wrote a tribute to the Emperor!"


	146. Chapter 146

Sing a song of treachery,

And there you'll find his hand.

Sing a song of villainy,

And you begin to understand...

-- Song of Edward, verse eleven

Chapter One Hundred and Forty-Six

Whilst Martin worked furiously to discover the secrets of the Mythic Dawn, Docada pursued his idea of being the Emperor's minstrel, and Jauffre set about drawing up plans for exterminating the Mythic Dawn so soon as he discovered their lair, Edward finished his journey to the Imperial City.

He was glad to be out of the frozen northern reaches, but this was no joyous homecoming. Indeed, he felt a sense of dejection and repudiation as he entered the city gates. This wasn't _his _city anymore; it was Martin's. This wasn't _his_ home anymore; it was the Emperor's. The very walls and streets and gates that had for so long filled him with pride and a sense of belonging seemed to jeer at him and his misery.

It was one thing to know that it all belonged to a man far away and high above him; but now they belonged to one he knew well, one he held in contempt, one who had been his own servant. It was as if his beloved city, the symbol of his pride as an Imperial, had cast him out.

Indeed, the only fixture of that once-beloved city that brought a smile to his face was the burnt out shell of the Imperial palace. Once, he had cursed the dirty arson who had wrought that evil; indeed, he did so still. But, at least, it was destruction of the Emperor's property, and as much a slap on the face to Martin as to any Imperial.

Forcing these thoughts out of his mind, however, he made himself consider his next step. He hadn't been able to make up his mind during his trip to the City as to what he would do next; and now it seemed a necessity.

Half of him wanted to seek out the Mythic Dawn and avenge himself once and for all on the bastard king who dared to let the barbarians abuse him; and the other half worried that, even if the Dawn didn't attack him again, Jauffre would find his treachery out.

So, pondering these thoughts, Edward traipsed through the Imperial City for several hours, passing from district to district in an unseeing haze of confused thought. Finally, fatigue getting the better of him, he came to a stop. He was in the Green Emperor Way, right outside the palace. Still having come to no distinct plan of action, he decided to sit and rest for a while on the stone ledge overlooking the gardens.

After all he'd been through, his sense of despair seemed so heavy that it clouded his thinking. What, in the name of Oblivion, was he going to do?

Turning exasperated eyes about him, he surveyed the people around him with a disgust borne of frustration and disappointment. Who were these riffraff to chatter and smile and go about their daily business as if all was well when he, Edward the Imperial, was dejected and low? Who, he wondered, was that old crone by the gate, cackling away with her friend, to enjoy herself whilst he despaired? And that gray-haired fool not ten feet away, whose babbling interrupted his own thoughts; who was he to look so pleased with himself whilst Edward the Imperial suffered?

Glaring at the old man, who was chatting with a friend about his own age, Edward wished for a moment that he had that power that people said Khajiit had to frighten everyone away with merely a glance. As it was, he was staring at the old fool with everything he had, but the impudent blackguard took no notice, and continued gossiping as if nothing was amiss.

"There's no finer place in all of Cyrodiil," he was telling his friend. "I'll tell you that much."

"Well, I don't know if I'd say that, but it is a good boarding house," the other returned.

"Nonsense! Luther Broad's is matched by no one!"

The other man snickered. "So says you...but we both know why _you_ like it so much."

The first man, 'the old fool' as Edward termed him, grinned sheepishly. "I've never seen a more beautiful woman."

"Yeah, yeah."

"But, truly, the service is beyond compare."

"The food's not bad, either," the second man agreed.

"Yes...and the company..." the first man smiled again in that stupid manner.

"Yeah, yeah, Rufius..."

Edward found his glare disappearing as he listened to this conversation, and his pulse beginning to race excitedly. "_Luther's Broads, eh?_" he thought. He had never realized there was an establishment of _that_ nature in the town; as far as he knew, the Legion and City Watch had cracked down on all of the less than savory establishments years ago. He grinned a toothy grin, and he suddenly felt considerably better.

Let the barbarian wenches snub him; let the world go to Oblivion, for that matter. He was going to Luther's Broads Boarding House, and staying for at least as long as his purse allowed.


	147. Chapter 147

Silly of my followers, wasn't it,  
To be alarmed by the bunglings of such a ninny as Edward?  
He alone, of all of them, may yet prove  
The most useful in taking down those accursed Blades.

-- Contemplations of Mehrunes Dagon

Chapter One Hundred and Forty-Seven

It had taken Edward some time to find the establishment he sought. For some reason, everyone he'd asked had had a difficult time recognizing the name; and even his "knowing wink" had done nothing to ease their confusion. In fact, it might have only made matters worse.

Feeling his pulse racing, Edward reached for the door handle. He was sick of all the unworthy barbarians and fools who snubbed him. "_Now, at last, I'm going to meet women worthy of me, finally some good women._" He paused from his anticipatory reverie. "_Well, not __**too**__ good..._" Laughing inwardly at his own wit, he pushed the door open.

The room into which he entered was darker than the streets had been, and it took Edward a moment or two to adjust to the sudden light change. His eager eyes roamed the room, but, alas, he saw only a few patrons, a cat on the bar, and two publicans behind the counter.

He frowned. He could not have been mistaken – this was the place. Indeed, he had seen the sign overhead as he entered. "_So then...where are the broads?_" Then, an inspired answer came to him. "_Oh, of course they're not in the public room...the Watch could find them then...they're probably somewhere in the back, in a private salon." _Images of an exotic palace of pleasure filling his mind, Edward sauntered over to the counter wearing a very stupid grin.

"Hello gorgeous," he addressed the heavily wrinkled Breton. She raised an eyebrow at this greeting, but he continued, "I want something...good..." He winked at her.

Clearing her throat but nodding, she went to the counter and retrieved a bottle of Cyrodilic Brandy. "Here you are, sir," she said. "Best we have."

Edward stared at the bottle for a moment, wondering if she had missed his meaning. Surely his wink had been grand and obvious enough? And then an idea struck him. "_Ohhh...they probably have to be certain of me...make sure I'm not one of the local pigs, investigating them._" Smiling to himself at his own diabolical cleverness, he thanked her. "You got anything hot, honey?"

"Hot?"

"That's right...hot..._steaming_," he answered in a throaty whisper that he took to be alluring.

So lost in impressing her with his suitability as a client for her establishment, he missed the way in which she rolled her eyes as she said, "Very well...coming right up."

Sitting back, he poured himself a glass of brandy and watched the woman disappear into a room behind the bar. That had done it, then. He had convinced her that he was a trustworthy client. "_Just gotta play it cool...stay on top of things...show 'em what a player I am_," he congratulated himself. "_And it's as easy as that._"

To his dismay, the woman returned a moment later with a mug of steaming liquid. "Hot milk, sweetened with honey," she said, setting it down quickly and retreating.

He frowned. Apparently it wasn't that easy after all. "_Do you need a password?" _he wondered. "_Or do you have to be invited...ohhh...maybe it's a private club, where only the select and best men are asked __to join...I wonder how one goes about getting invited?_" Lost in these thoughts, he didn't note how the eyes of all the patrons were on him; nor did he see an inconspicuous Redguard move closer. He did, however, note as the bar cat walked over and started to taste his milk.

"Hey!" he growled, pushing the beast away. He might have no intention of drinking it, but he was likely to get charged for it all the same...so no one else was going to drink it.

The cat twitched its tail at him and put its ears back.

Edward glared at the creature. He was hardly in the mood to be intimidated by a stupid little animal, much less a pompous one like this cat, who had the audacity to steal from him and then be offended at being shooed away. "You're lucky I didn't split your skull open, you dumb beast!" he snarled, keeping his voice low so as to keep his words from the publicans' ears. "Now begone!"

The cat twitched his tail, and Edward, deciding that he'd won that battle, was turning back to his drinks when he heard a whispered, "Hey!"

Starting, the Imperial's eyes darted back to the cat. Staring at the beast for a moment as if to reassure himself that it hadn't just talked to him, he laughed at the stupidity of the idea. He must have imagined the voice.

Turning again, he was likewise startled a second time to hear, "Hey, stupid!"

Gulping, Edward held the cat's gaze. The creature's ears were back in a highly annoyed fashion, and the Imperial felt the hairs on his back standing on end. "Me?" he whispered hoarsely.

"Of course you, you moron!" the cat replied.

Edward stared in stupefaction. He hadn't seen the cat move its lips, but he'd heard the sound all the same. "_Then, cats don't have lips, do they?_" he wondered. "I'm sorry!" he gulped. "You can take the milk!"

"Milk? I don't want the milk, you moron!"

"Then...my money?"

"Money? What would I want with your money?"

Edward felt his knees shaking. "I don't know...just...that is...what _do_ talking cats generally want?"

"What?!"

"What do you want?"

"You're the messenger, aren't you?" the whispered voice asked. "That Jauffre sent?"

Edward started anew. "How...how did you know that? How did you know about Jauffre?"

"Because I'm a Blade, you moron!"

Staring in wonder at the animal, whose tail was now twitching, Edward asked, "You mean...they let animals into the Blades?" Then, realizing the silliness of his question, he answered, "Well, of course they do...I mean, Jauffre's the Grandmaster after all..."

"You insolent bastard!" Suddenly, Edward felt a crashing pain in the back of his head, and all went dark.


	148. Chapter 148

Amazing...that a man in opposition,  
Could be more use to me than he ever was in service.  
How could I have missed this beforehand?  
Have I found at last the answer to all the riddles?  
-- Contemplations of Mehrunes Dagon

Chapter One Hundred and Forty-Eight

Baurus had brought his glass into sharp, swift contact with Edward's head at the aspersion of Jauffre's good name. Now that the Imperial slumped to the ground, however, he glanced up at the publican. "Umm...sorry about that, Mirella. My glass just sort of slipped."

The Breton nodded, seeming almost relieved. "Don't worry about it, Baurus. It happens."

"Just put it on my tab, will you?"

"Well, it was his head that broke it," she shrugged. "Not yours."

"Oh...good point," the Redguard nodded.

The older woman winked in a conspiratorial manner, and asked, "But will you drag him to the room upstairs?"

"Of course."

"I think he's drunk out of his mind right now...it'll probably do him good to sleep it off. And, anyway, we don't have anyone boarding in that room...Luther's been looking for a new renter."

Laughing, the Redguard dragged the Imperial's body to the unoccupied room. Splashing water in his face, he tried to rouse him; that failing, however, he returned to the main room. He couldn't be away too long; he couldn't risk suspicion.

His glass smashed to pieces, Baurus ordered a fresh cup. Mirella obliged, and he set in for the long wait for Edward's return.

An hour passed, and then another; finally, the Imperial shuffled downstairs, looking much the worse for wear. His expression was groggy, and his eyes very unobservant. Mirella, Baurus thought, must have been right...he _was _drunk.

His eyes followed Edward as he approached the bar again. "Excuse me..."

"Yes?" Mirella asked.

"What...happened?"

"You fell into that glass, and shattered it all to bits with your head," the publican answered.

Edward frowned at her, but didn't dispute the claim. "I see...well, look here, you must know why I'm here?"

"You want another drink?"

"Drinks be damned! Stop playing games with me, you old crone! I want to see the broads!"

Stepping back in an affronted manner, Mirella pointed to Luther. "Luther is the only Broad who works here, _sir_."

Edward recoiled in disgust. "_That_??" he demanded. "It's a guy!"

"An astute observation," Mirella snapped. "I'm sure his wife will be happy to know."

Slamming his fist onto the counter, Edward snarled, "Enough with these games, you hideous old bag! Where are the women?! The women who work here?"

Baurus, who had a fondness for the likeable old lady, was half inclined to break another glass or two over Edward's head; but sheer fascination at the Imperial's madness stayed his hand.

Mirella, for her part, recoiled again. "What are you talking about, you drunken wastrel? I'm the only woman who works here?"

It was Edward's turn to jump back in horror. "_You_?" he shrieked. "What sort of an establishment is this?I wouldn't pay a brass septim for _you_!"

Mirella stared at him in astonishment, and Baurus, certain that Edward was either drunk as a Nord or else suffering from a mental illness, felt he had better intervene at once.

"Let me get this lout out of here for you," he declared, seizing the Imperial by the shoulders.

Edward, as his touch, turned fiercely; and then recognition lighted in his eyes. "Baurus!"

For his part, the Redguard tried to drag the Imperial out of the inn quickly, and silence him in the meanwhile with a warning look.

But Edward was not to be silenced. "No, Baurus! I have to talk to that cat! He's got a message for me!"

This 'revelation' was too much for the soldier, who paused in dragging Edward out. "What?"

"The cat! He told me that he's a Blade, too. We've got to listen to what he has to tell us!"

Kicking himself for not removing the Imperial already, as he was sure that everyone had heard the mention of the Blades, Baurus again headed for the door. Trying to shout over Edward's screaming, he called, "I'll take care of this one, Mirella, don't you worry."

But the weaker man continued to screech and fight, grabbing on to anything to prevent himself from being dragged out. "He's got a message, you fool! The fate of the Empire rests on that cat! He's a Blade!!"


	149. Chapter 149

Speaking of barbarians with tails,

Oh, the tales we could recount,

If we recounted their primitive ways

How it weighs on our minds to deal with them!

-- _Of the Vileness and Uncouthness of the Vile and Uncouth Barbarian Peoples_

Chapter One Hundred and Forty-Nine

Baurus had initially admonished Edward in the harshest terms, but, seeing that his words fell on deaf ears, he'd tried explaining what the Imperial had done. This too had failed, and so, now, he was left furious and certain that Edward was no more repentant than he had been in the beginning. "You miserable son of an Imperial toad!" he was saying. "Do you have any idea what you've done? You just ruined my meeting with the Mythic Dawn! That agent – the one behind me at Luther's boarding house – had been trailing me for two weeks now to make sure I wasn't a plant! And now, because of you, he knows that I'm still in the Blades!"

For his own part, Edward stared, stupefied. He wasn't exactly sure what the Blade was talking about, nor was he really trying to comprehend. He tended to tune out when people yelled at him or faulted him for any wrong, and this was no exception.

"This was my chance – our chance! I would have been able to get into the Mythic Dawn, and track them down to their lair! I would have been able to kill them all – all! To stop their plot immediately, before they can go any further. And now we've got nothing. Nothing!"

"In my defense," Edward piped up, his tone even and infuriating in its very lack of concern, "that cat told me he was a Blade."

"You...you stupid..." Here at, Baurus launched into a tirade of cusses of every nature imaginable.

Despite feeling insulted at the verbal onslaught, Edward couldn't help but note a twinge of respect for the barbarian. "I didn't know he was multilingual," he thought as the Redguard, his command of profanities in the common tongue failing him, slipped into languages that Edward did not recognize.

Finally, just as the Imperial was suppressing a yawn, Baurus finished with, "And, for the record, I've met sacks of potatoes with more brains than you!"

"Well," Edward answered, "as interesting as your journey into vegetable country must have been, I'm afraid I haven't quite the pleasure of understanding you. Are you telling me that that cat was _not _talking to me?"

Bauraus stared at him, his lips moving but no sound coming out, as if he was too astonished or exasperated to speak.

"If not it, then who?"

"Me, you fool!" the Reguard exploded.

Wiping the spittle from his face, Edward looked disdainfully at the Blade. "No need to shout," he told him. "I am quite capable of hearing at a normal volume." Then, a frown forming on his face, he asked, "But are you sure it was you? It sure looked like he was..."

"Of course it was me! Of course I'm sure!" the soldier roared, his fists clenched so tightly that his knuckles had gone a ghastly white. "What sort of imbecile are you?! Cats don't talk!"

"Au contraire," Edward corrected. "The barbarian folk – the Khajiit – certainly do talk. At least, in their own primitive way."

"But...they...are..._human_!" the Redguard returned through clenched teeth.

Edward stared dismissively at the soldier, his head at an upward slant. "Human?" Then, snorting, he thought – but felt it wiser not to say aloud – "_To a Redguard, no doubt they are_. _Barbarians, I suppose stick together...but to civilized people...seriously, a Khajiit? Disgusting, hairy creatures._" Then, a new thought coming to his mind, Edward broke into a grin. "I'd pay good money to see one of them go to a beauty salon and get their legs waxed, though," he murmured under his breath.

This grin, however, and the tangent that had caused it, proved too much for the observing Redguard, who imagined that the laughter was a reflection of Edward's amusement in destroying his hard work. Unable to repress himself any longer, he launched a hard, swift punch at the Imperial's jaw.


	150. Chapter 150

When times are good,

Recall the gods,

And they'll remember you,

When times are bad.

-- An excerpt from a piece translated in the scholarly work "_Writings of Old, Dead People_"

Chapter One Hundred and Fifty

The preparation to return to Cloud Ruler Temple was hardly an enjoyable one for either man. It had involved very little actual preparation, and much screaming and shouting between the two men as they attempted to sort out where blame lay and who was in the wrong.

Edward had learned that Luther Broad's Boarding House was not, in fact, a brothel, and the conversation he'd overhead -- the one that had started him on that idea in the first place -- referenced a romance between the elderly Breton Mirella and the elderly Redguard Rufius.

This idea had filled the young Imperial with disgust, and he cringed at the very prospect. "Old people aren't supposed to be in love!" he'd declared. "Old people are supposed to be sick in bed, dying from all sorts of disgusting, vile, loathsome, painful diseases."

The Redguard had been less than impressed with his reasoning, and warned him to watch his mouth; so Edward had kept the rest of his conjecture – that, if beautiful, firm-skinned, well-toned youngsters like himself were without lovers, surely hideous, sagging, wrinkled old people like Mirella and Rufius had no right to happiness – to himself. Upon reflection, he felt that keeping this thought to himself was a very wise choice, as Baurus, not being as young and beautiful as himself, certainly fit into the category of "old people", and would likely take offense to his observation.

"It's not my fault, anyway," he had told the Redguard, "after all, it's a stupid name to have."

"It's his name..."

"Yes, but it's hard to know when he calls it 'Luther Broad's' if he means the place belongs to a Broad, or multiple Broads...or broads, for that matter!"

Baurus had rolled his eyes and grimaced, and the conversation took another twist. Edward had begun to whine about his mistreatment at the Redguard's hands. "You're lucky you're the Emperor's friend," the soldier had said most undiplomatically, "Otherwise, yours would be a body no one would ever find. In fact, I haven't ruled that one out yet."

"Don't you dare threaten me, you savage!" Edward had countered in a whiny and unintimidating voice. "Once the Emperor finds out what you did to me – how you tried to murder me! – he'll have you killed!"

"I'll bet," Baurus answered, rolling his eyes. "Let's see what he says when I tell him about what you did..."

"I'll see that he has your head on a pike!" Edward countered.

"Ha!" the Redguard countered, "It'll take the Emperor himself to stop Jauffre from putting yours on a pike once your bungling is made known."

So they had gone back and forth until, at last, Baurus had given the order to head out of the city.

Still whining, Edward followed him; and they reached the stables in decent time. Edward hung back, as he was still not comfortable around Snak gra-Bura, after their first encounter. The Blade had just fetched both horses when a rider appeared.

"Baurus!" the man greeted.

The Redguard's eyes lit up. "Cyrus!"

"What luck! The...that is, our friend...sent me here to find you, and that wastrel friend of his."

Edward, who, while struggling to mount his horse, had been out of the other man's sight, stepped into view and glared at the Blade.

The other man continued as if he hadn't noticed him, or didn't care that he'd heard the insult. "Something's come up."


	151. Chapter 151

Madman Insults Local Woman, Talks to Cat!

Reports of a madman confronting workers and patrons of a local tavern and lodging house have come to our attention. These indicate that an unknown man with dark hair and youthful features – "baby-faced", in the words of one witness – entered Luther Broad's Boarding House during the afternoon of yesterday and made a number of strange demands of the publican, Mirebella Dunois. When these were complied with, he began to converse with and threaten Luther's cat. Whereupon, he mysteriously passed out, and – supposing him to be intoxicated – a fellow patron carried him to an empty room. When the madman awoke, he again assailed Mirebella, casting aspersions upon the nature of the establishment, Luther Broad, and the lady herself. He finished these with further attacks upon the cat. His antics grew so wild that a kindly patron dragged him out of the establishment, and he was not seen again.

Though the incident was alarming for Miss Dunois, she tells our reporter that she was very grateful for the intervention on her behalf. For Luther's part, he remarks that this incident has actually drawn customers to his establishment, as people come hoping to catch a glimpse of "the madman" as he is now called.

-- Black Horse Courier, Special News Bulletin

Chapter One Hundred and Fifty-One

Baurus had just finished his lengthy rendition of Edward's bumbling, with the Imperial interrupting every other word to protest his innocence. Cyrus stared in wonder and disgust at the latter, but then shook his head. "Well then, this isn't going to be very pleasant...but the Emperor has a mission for you."

"Me?"

"Yes...and him."

The Redguard blanched. "You don't mean...together?"

Cyrus nodded. "I'm afraid so. I'm sorry."

Edward slammed his mug of ale onto the table with a pout. "You two had better stop talking about me like I were some sort of...of burden!" His tone was high and whiny, and his eyes were flaming as he wailed.

"Shut up," Bauraus commanded. "You've already seen to it that we can never return to Luther Broad's...I don't want us kicked out here, too."

Edward glared at the Blade, but Cyrus cut in before the disagreement could go any further. "You see...one of Jauffre's agents tracked down one of theirs."

"The Mythic Dawn's?"

"That's right. And...well, suffice it to say, he didn't bring him in for questioning. And no one will _ever_ be questioning him now." A quick shiver passed through the man's frame, yet he continued stoically, "But he did find a note on him. It spoke of a ritual, and calling the first wave of believers to paradise through some sort of portal."

Baurus frowned. "Did it say where the portal was?"

"No," Cyrus answered. "Well, in 'the safe haven', but no particulars as to where that is. The note did say, though, that the ritual would occur a week from the date of the letter."

"And when was that?"

"Three days ago."

Baurus' expression grew darker. "Great...and any chance I had of finding out where that was is gone now, thanks to -"

Cyrus interrupted before his friend could provoke another whiny outburst from the Imperial. "Not necessarily...the...our friend...found something that might be useful for you."

Baurus' eyes lit up. "Oh?"

"Remember those old books you dug up? Well, they seemed like nothing more than ranting religious nonsense, drivel of the preaching to the choir variety...so Jauffre threw them in a chest along with a bunch of other stuff...but then...our friend...started to insist that he be given something to do."

Baurus frowned at him, and, throwing a wary glance about to make sure there were no listeners near at hand, he asked in a whisper, "The Emperor?"

Cyrus nodded, smiling. "I know...since when do they want to actually do something? But he did. Downright insisted, in fact."

Baurus shook his head. "Amazing...I mean, if you said he'd demanded parchment to write poetry..."

Cyrus shivered. "Ye gods, that reminds me...remember that disgusting little elf I wrote you about? The one that's always tagging along with the...our friend?" Baurus nodded. "He's taken up poetry. Thinks he's going to follow...our friend around, singing his praises."

Baurus rolled his eyes and sighed.

"But what about the books?" Edward demanded, bringing both men around to the task at hand.

"Oh, that's right," Cyrus nodded. "Anyway, Jauffre figured it would...keep our friend busy, if you know what I mean, if he went through all of those." Baurus snickered. "Research, of course. Anyway, it turns out there was a sort of coded message hidden in there."

Baurus was genuinely surprised. "Message? How?"

"The first letter of every paragraph," Cyrus answered. "It spelled out a sentence...at least, a sort of sentence: _Green Emperor Way Where Tower Touches Midday Sun_."

"Well, what does that mean?"

Cyrus shrugged. "Donno...the...that is, our friend thought it meant that there was something in the Green Emperor way at noon."

"A meeting, maybe?" Baurus asked.

The other Redgurad shrugged again. "No clue...but he wanted you – you, and him – to investigate it."

Baurus' face creased in disgust. "Why him?"

"Something about him having experience and working undercover to bring the Mythic Dawn down," Cyrus answered. "Although it seems hard to believe, after the story you told me."

Edward glared at both men. "It _is_ true!"

"More like he's working to help the Mythic Dawn take us down," Baurus grumbled.

Cyrus laughed, and Edward turned very pale. "Like I said...I'm sorry, but those were his orders."

Sighing deeply, Baurus agreed, "True enough. Alright, slimy, let's get going. If there _is _a meeting at noon, we'd better hustle. We've only got twenty minutes to get there."


	152. Chapter 152

To learn the best of a man,

Catch him at his worst;

Then you see his true mettle,

Be it good good or evil.

-- An excerpt from a piece translated in the scholarly work "_Writings of Old, Dead People_"

Chapter One Hundred and Fifty-Two

Edward hastened to keep up with the Redguard as they cut their way through the streets of the Imperial City. As loath as he was to work with the condescending barbarian, he felt this was a necessary evil, an opportunity for him to redeem himself from whatever slurs Baurus would make against his good name in relation to his relatively minor slip-up at Luther Broad's Boarding House.

The Redguard, however, was considerably more fit than he, and the Imperial had to practically run to keep up with him. It was with relief that he saw the gates of the Green Emperor Way coming into view; and, panting heavily, he congratulated himself as they passed through. Whatever lay waiting for them, this was his chance to be a hero, and to counter any of the lies or misrepresentations that the Blade would tell.

To his dismay, however, the Imperial saw nothing out of the common way. There was no gathering of suspicious men hooded in crimson robes; no pack of assassins like those he'd seen attack the Emperor. "There's nothing here!" he protested to Baurus. He suddenly felt very annoyed at having to run after the barbarian, all for no reason.

"No!" the Blade answered suddenly. "Look!" Whereupon, he turned his step off of the path and toward a stone monument.

"A tomb?" Edward wondered, pondering if the Redguard had lost his mind. "What's so great about a tomb?"

"Look, you fool," Baurus snapped. "And for heaven's sakes, lower your voice!"

Pouting, Edward's eyes followed the Redguard's gaze. "_It's just stone, with a glowing...thing...on it_," he thought in confusion. "_What's the big deal?_"

"See that?" the Blade asked, as if answering Edward's thoughts. "It's a map...a map of Cyrodiil...and this mark...this must be the hideout!"

Edward stared quizzically at the rune. "Are you sure?" he asked. "It seems rather a stretch to..."

"Of course I'm sure!" Baurus snapped. "Look! Here's the City. And this _must _be their headquarters. Hmm...its looks like its somewhere just north of Cheydinhal."

Edward continued staring at the marks, but couldn't convince himself that they were what Baurus claimed – in large part, because the barbarian claimed so. "I don't know..." he said at last. "What makes you think that this is even what the message means?"

"Look up there!" Baurus exclaimed in irritation, pointing toward the top of the burnt-out White Gold tower. "See? The tower is meeting the midday sun from where we're standing. And we're in the Green Emperor Way."

"Hmmm..." Edward mused, his tone indicating his unwillingness to commit to the notion.

"How much more obvious can they make it?" the Redguard demanded. "You want a bloody official envoy?!"

Edward stared at the Redguard, his head drawn back in a superior way, and his nose held high in the air in a haughty fashion. "If it's not too much to ask of one of your sort," he sniffed, "you might perhaps drop the condescending pretenses with me?"


	153. Chapter 153

When exposed to horrors and dangers,  
A man's truest nature is revealed.  
If coward or betrayer, it will surely show;  
And if steadfast ally, it will be made manifest.

-- An excerpt from a piece translated in the scholarly work "_Writings of Old, Dead People_"

Chapter One Hundred and Fifty-Three

Realizing that the Redguard intended to ride for the Mythic Dawn hide-out at once, and without delay of any sort, Edward had tried every method of stalling he could think of. He'd even mentioned the ring – Felicity Smolet's ring – that Martin had entrusted him with returning; he had been planning to hock it at the first pawn shop he came to, but he decided that it was better to be alive and poor than dead and rich.

But Baurus was not to be waylaid. "No!" he'd told the Imperial firmly. "The Emperor insisted that you accompany me on this mission. Well, you're going to accompany me. And we're leaving now."

"But...but the Emperor ordered me to..."

"It will wait," the Blade answered. "This won't. The Smolets will be here when get back; if we don't hurry, we might miss the Mythic Dawn."

No amount of arguing, whining, threatening or begging would sway the implacable Redguard. Finally, Edward had declared, "I'm not going until I do this – not if you dragged me out of the City!"

Baurus had apparently taken this as a sort of challenge, for he'd hoisted the Imperial up without a word, carried him, screaming all the way, to his horse, and declared, "Now, either you ride it, or I tie you to it and you ride."

Though Edward had screamed and screamed, "Help! He's kidnapping me!" no one seemed to take note. Perhaps the Imperial Guards who saw recognized Baurus; or, perhaps they felt it wasn't worth life or limb to save Edward.

Either way, a rebellious, screaming Edward and a somewhat amused Baurus rode swiftly out of the Imperial City, and in the direction that the map had indicated.

The trip was a long, hard one, necessitating a few cross-country bouts. These filled Edward with dread, for he hated to think that his life hung in the balance, depending solely on the wits and navigational skills of a barbarian.

Nonetheless, for all of Edward's worries, Baurus did not fail him; and, though they rode hard and long, they made their way safely, and in good time, to a cavern set in the rocks.

They pulled their horses up some ways from here, having been alerted to the hide-out by the conspicuous red robes of an agent. He was standing beside a shabby wooden door, stuck into a frame that must have been custom fit to the cave's rock mouth. The Blade saw all of this from a great distance, and Edward none.

"Alright," Baurus whispered after he'd tethered their horses. "See him? The guy in the red robes? We're going to sneak up and kill him."

Edward whimpered. "I'm tired," he complained. "Can't we sleep for awhile and then do it?"

The Redguard glared at him. "That note said a week -- three and a half days ago, it was three days since the note was sent!"

"That still gives us half a day," Edward protested. "Surely..."

"Silence, you fool! Now listen. You're going to sneak up and distract him. Do something stupid to make some noise – that should be easy enough for you."

Edward crossed his arms on his chest and glared at the Redguard.

"But not too stupid," Baurus cautioned. "I don't want him to set off any alarm...just to go investigate."

"Why don't you distract him, and I kill him?" Edward wondered disagreeably.

Baurus snorted in laughter at the suggestion. "Because I want us to make it out of this alive. That is, I want to get out alive, and the Emperor won't like if you don't."

Edward's glare intensified. "Listen, oaf," he said, "just because your barbarian instincts are to kill everything on sight, why don't we use an approach more likely to achieve success -- that is, one conceived in a more cerebral manner than drooling over the addition of another head to your disgusting collection?"

The Blade frowned at him. "The heads are Jauffre's collection," he returned coldly. Then, because the idea was so preposterous that he could not resist, no matter how pressing was the task at hand, he asked, "And just what is this 'cerebral' idea of yours?"

Edward sniffed haughtily, and a superior smile formed on his lips. "There now, my primitive...you _are_ making progress. You've recognized the intellectual superiority of your betters, and you've learnt a new word – all in one afternoon."


	154. Chapter 154

Trust not to the heroism of the coward,

Nor place your faith in the worthiness of the unworthy;

For in the first place you will be disappointed,

And in the second you will find yourself betrayed.

-- An excerpt from a piece translated in the scholarly work "_Writings of Old, Dead People_"

Chapter One Hundred and Fifty-Four

It was with astonishment of the deepest sort that Baurus had had to admit that Edward's idea was, in fact, a good one. So, a dagger to his back and a rope twined around his hands, he marched for the cavern door.

The guard, on seeing them approach, felt for the blade at his side, and called out, "Hold! Who goes there, and what business have you here?"

Edward stepped out from behind the Blade to greet the doorman. "I am Edward," he said. "Who was recently thought to have betrayed this order, but who comes offering this barbarian Blade as evidence of my fealty."

The doorman scratched his chin with one hand, whilst the other yet grasped the hilt of his blade. "Wus'at you say?" he asked, a vague expression filling his eyes.

"There's been a mistake," Edward replied, speaking slowly and with the manner of one talking to a very stupid, irksome child. "A mistake. I have come here, after catching this agent of the Emperor, to state my case."

Still scratching his chin, the man hummed and hawed for a few moments. Then, cracking the door open a hairsbreadth, he called out, "Brether Harrow? I think you should have yerself a look-see at what I've got here."

The shuffling of feet sounded from behind that ramshackle door, and Baurus found himself sweating. He hoped that the Mythic Dawn really were as gullible as Edward claimed, and that he'd be able to convince them of his innocence. The plan was good, but was he a fool for trusting in the Imperial's acting abilities?

These thoughts were short-lived, however, as the door pulled open fully, and a saggy-middled, grizzled Dunmer stepped out. "What's all the yelling about?" Then, his eyes catching sight of the newcomers, he declared, "Well looky here...visitors."

Edward stepped forward again, and Baurus couldn't help but admire the man's sudden courage. Perhaps, he mused, he'd misconstrued the Imperial, and he wasn't worthless after all. Perhaps he just needed to find his center, his source of strength and bravery.

"I am Edward, the Imperial," a firm voice spoke.

"An' I'm Harrow, the Warden of this Shrine. What's yer business here?"

"There was...a mix-up recently," Edward answered. "It was believed that I was working with the Emperor."

The red eyes of the Dunmer flashed with something like recognition. "Ohhh," he said, "I reckon I heared about that. They tried to put you in a pine box, if I recall correctly?"

"That's right. But I escaped, and came to set the record straight."

"Oh?"

"I am not, nor have I ever been, on the Emperor's side. I was forced to work with him, but only so that I could learn the identities of those who were protecting him."

"Oh?" the other man repeated. Baurus wondered if the Dunmer was taking any of this in, or was just waiting until Edward finished to kill them both.

"Now that I've learnt that, I've come to prove my fealty to the great Dragon!"

Baurus felt his heart skip a beat at Edward's foolish revelation, while, at the same time, the Dunmer frowned. "I thought you jus' said you was on our side?"

"I am!" Edward returned. "I just told you – I'm here to serve the great Marooned Dragon."

Scratching his chin in precisely the same manner as the doorkeeper had, Harrow said, "You mean Dagon? Mehrunes Dagon?"

Edward nodded, and Baurus felt his heart beat slowly returning to its normal pace. "_So __**that's**__what he meant_," he thought. "_Marooned Dragon indeed!_" Suddenly, he was less sure than he had been at placing his life in the Imperial's hands.

"Alright then," the Dunmer declared. "That's better, I suppose."

"And look," Edward continued, "I've even brought this disgusting lapdog, this right-hand slave of the Emperor's, as a testament to my loyalty – along with information about the secret fortress where the bastard Emperor is hiding."

Harrow stared at Baurus, and then nodded. "Alright...I reckon I'd better take you in to see Father Camoran. But first, yer gonna have to hand over yer weapons."


	155. Chapter 155

How many ages of men have passed,

How many eras come and gone...

And yet, in all of that time, when has last

The likes of this bounder been seen?

-- From _God in Exile_, collective thoughts of Tiber Septim

Chapter One Hundred and Fifty-Five

Edward breathed a sigh of relief. Not only had he gotten this far, but the guard had let him keep the dagger he had to Baurus' back. It filled him with confidence to know that he had a knife ready to plunge into the Redguard should the need arise; but also a knife with which he could cut the barbarian's ropes, should necessity demand it.

As it was, he felt fairly sure that the Mythic Dawn would take him back now; and then he could dispatch with the repulsive barbarian. If things didn't go as he'd planned, though – and he'd seen his plots go awry enough times to prepare for that eventuality – he'd have a loyal savage rushing to his defense.

His pulse raced a little as they progressed down the cavern corridors, but he couldn't help repress a grin at the same time. It had been easy – so easy – to convince the fool to let him tie his hands up and stick a knife to his back. Oh, but barbarians really were so stupid. It was almost worth having them around – it was always handy to have a raving savage at your beck and call, should danger present itself, but there was the amusement factor too. "_Honestly, it's too funny,_" he thought. "_I almost feel sorry for the clueless primitive...walked right into my trap, like a lamb to the slaughter...a really stupid lamb!_" Snorting in laughter, he immediately checked it as the Dunmer threw a suspicious glance at him.

Battling the giggles for the rest of the journey, Edward hardly took note of the winding paths they weaved through the stone passages. At last, however, they stepped into a giant subterranean chamber. Edward stared in wonder. In the midst of this grotto, where nature's handiwork had clearly been enlarged upon and bettered by human hands, there stood a huge, terrible statue; and before it, an altar with a bound Argonian atop it. Around this creature, dozens of worshipers stood, all clothed in red robes. The very air seemed laden with evil and treachery.

Edward breathed out in awe. It was like, at long last, he had come home; as if the evil of this place spoke to his heart, whispered to his senses, beckoned him onward. He saw with disdain that the Redguard had noticed the aura as well, and shivered at it. "_Only wait, barbarian,_" he thought. "_There will be more for you to fear in just a minute_."

"C'mon," Harrow instructed. "Meet the master."

With legs quaking in awe, Edward marched Baurus forward. Their entrance drew all eyes to them, and the Imperial tried to carry himself with pride and dignity.

"Well, now, what do we have here?" a powerful, congenial voice called over.

Edward followed it to its source: a tall Dunmer, with piercing red eyes. He knew at once that this must be the "Father Camoran" of which Harrow spoke. "My master!" he declared, falling to his knees. "I am Edward, your humble servant. Not long ago, mistaking me for a traitor, your men tried to kill me. But I am not a traitor. I have come here to pledge my loyalty. I have even brought one of the Blades, whom I captured myself. And I bring news, my lord! News of the Septim bastard."

The Dunmer surveyed Edward for a moment, and then asked in a tone both friendly and wary, "Alright, son, if you are what you say, let's hear your news."

"He is holed up in a fortress of the Blades', hiding from you and your forces like the rat that he is."

"What fortress?"

"In the Jerral mountains, near Bruma. A place called Cloud Ruler Temple, my lord." Edward heard Baurus' sharp intake of breath, and he wondered if the stupid barbarian had at last divined his motives; well, too late for him now. He was about to be re-welcomed into the Mythic Dawn, and then – in the company of these great men and women – he would be able to exact his revenge against Martin. And, he would be safe from the reaches of Friar Jauffre.

"Well now, that _is_ good news, my son," Mankar Camoran intoned. "And this is a beautiful sacrifice you bring us...but why did you keep company with that Septim fly if you were on our side?"

"I had no choice, my lord. I needed to find out who his allies were, and how deep their perversity lay in our society."

The Dunmer reflected atop his pulpit for a few moments, and then nodded. "Well done, my boy. You've proved yourself worthy of our great god."

Edward beamed, and realized that he was shaking with exultation.

"And yer just in time, my boy. Isn't he, brethren?"

At this, a chorus of "Praise to Lord Dagon" and "Amen to that" sounded from the faithful.

"In time?" Edward asked. He tried to ignore Baurus whispering, "Alright, get ready to let me go," behind him.

"That's right. We're just about to ascend – you heard me, my child, ascend! He's calling us – calling us! We're going home! Paradise calls us, my children – paradise!" The Prophet was waving his arms and gesturing profusely as he spoke.

Against a backdrop of shouted agreement, Edward loosed a murmur of amazement. Was it possible, he wondered, that the answers to all of his troubles had been so easy? He was about to ascend to the great Dragon's paradise, where he, as one of the faithful, would live in comfort forevermore. He would want for nothing; the finest foods, the the finest drinks, the finest women...they'd all be his. And, maybe, a few of the people who had tormented him here, to torture there. "_Who knows_," he thought, "_I might even be able to get my hands on that filthy upstart servant of mine...or Jauffre!_"

Oblivious to the fact that he was licking his lips feverishly as the images of what awaited assailed his mind, Edward tried to listen to his prophet's words.

"Who among you – who! – can stand by himself? None of us. Not one! But in the shadow of Lord Dagon – we are cleansed, my children, _cleansed_! We are his Children – his Children! Do you know what that means, to be one of his children? Tell me, what Father neglects the needs of his Children?"

Edward found himself answering with the crowd, "None, my Prophet, none!"

"I know what you're thinking," Mankar continued, still gesticulating abundantly. "You're thinking, 'Oh, Father Camoran, I'm not worthy to be in his presence!' And you're right – you're not worthy. I'm not worthy. None of us are worthy – not in and of ourselves. But, my brothers and sisters, he cleanses us; he burns away our impurities in the fires of his love – his love! He loves us, my sisters! He loves us, my brothers! You, me, unworthy creatures that we are...he, the Great Lord Dagon, loves us!"

"Quick!" Baurus' voice came to Edward's ears. "While they're getting into this fit – cut my ropes!"

Edward, chanting along with the crowd, ignored the Redguard. "Bless our Father Dragon!"

"Are you ready to go home, my children? Are you ready to see our father? Are you ready to taste paradise?" Mankar was screaming.

The crowd, Edward included, screamed back in the affirmative.

"Before they notice! Before it's too late!" Baurus continued to plead with Edward.

The Imperial took no note, his mind full of thoughts of eternal wanton excess.

"Do you know what's it like in Paradise, my friends?" Mankar continued. "You've never seen anything like it – nothing! The skies are always clear; the breeze is always fresh; there are plants and wildlife unspoilt by the unwashed hands of the unbelievers. Its paradise, my friends; paradise!"

Edward chanted "Paradise" along with the rest of the crowd, waiting with feverish excitement for the Prophet to get to the good parts – the luxuries, the women, the slaves to abuse and torment...

"We can leave all the woe and suffering we've known here behind, my children! We'll leave this world to our Father, whose terrible judgment will fall heavy and swift on the sinners – the sinners! But we..._we_ will be in a world of tranquility, of quiet, of peace, full of the singing of birds and the rustle of the breeze through the leaves. We will take quiet walks on lonely paths, and converse with our fellow believers. There will be no strife – no strife, my sisters and brothers. Think of it! No suffering anymore! Think of that, my children!"

Edward frowned. So far, the Prophet's description of paradise didn't coincide with his. "_Surely he must have it wrong_," he thought, "_Surely there must be __**some **__strife and suffering...how else am I going to make that bastard Martin pay?_"


	156. Chapter 156

Greet the coming Dawn!

Embrace the change it brings!

Temper your heart with worthiness!

Hear the words of Lord Dagon!

Envision Paradise at His side!

Listen for the summoning home!

Prepare for our last journey!

-- _The Garlic_'s take on Mankar Camoran's _Guide to the Faithful_

Chapter One Hundred and Fifty-Six

By time Mankar Camoran's lengthy speech had come to its conclusion, the entire crowd was worked into a frenzy – except Edward and Baurus. The Redguard was still pleading with Edward to delay no longer, and to free him; and the Imperial was trying to decide if the Prophet had got Paradise all wrong, or if he really had a boring park full of zealots to look forward to for all eternity.

"Edward, my child," Mankar called, pulling him from his reverie, "Come. This honor falls to you, our brother returned to us from the other side."

Edward gulped. "Honor?"

"That's right!" the Prophet drawled. "Come up here – and bring the unbeliever with you!"

"You fool!" Baurus hissed as Edward prodded him to rise. "I told you the opportunity would pass!"

"Shut up," Edward whispered in return. Truth to be told, he wasn't quite sure what he was going to do now; he almost regretted not taking the barbarian's advice. But it was too late now, wasn't it? After all, he was going up to the pulpit, in the plain sight of everyone here.

"Good boy!" Mankar called to him. "Ohhh, I can tell, we're gonna get along so well, my son. You have the heart of a listener!" The Prophet was smiling broadly, while the crowd was cheering his name. "Now, bring that sinner over to the altar."

Edward did as he was bid, feeling his palms slick in a nervous sweat. The idea of spending eternity surrounded by wildlife – not to mention a bunch of fanatics who relished the idea – was making him feel physically ill. Surely...surely that was not going to be his fate? While an eternity of the paradise he'd envisioned seemed hardly sufficient, eternity in this context suddenly seemed like such a very, very long time...

"Now!" the Prophet declared, shouting in the way that, Edward had observed, was characteristic of him when rousing the crowd into a fury of fervor. "We had planned a final sacrifice here on earth – all of us together. We were going to spill the blood of this Argonian, and make pure and sacred our final trip together. But now – now you've brought us something so much better." This said, he dragged the bound Argonian from the altar and threw him down the steps leading up to the pulpit. Pointing to Baurus, he commanded, "Come, my son! Lay the filth on this slab of stone, so that we may draw the blood out of his beating heart!"

"His beating heart!" the crowd called simultaneously.

"The honor is yours, my child! Seize it, and earn Lord Dagon's favor. Kill him, that the spilling of his life force may purify us all; let his blood rush in torrents – torrents – and wash the filth of mortality from us all, my brother! Demonstrate to us how the impure is made pure, how delight comes only through suffering! Kill him, and let his death symbolize our Lord Dagon's love for us!"

Gulping, Edward readied his dagger.

"What are you doing?!" Baurus whispered hoarsely. "How are we going to get out of this?!"

"Turn him about!" Mankar commanded. "So that we can see his face – and he can see the dagger as our Lord Dagon guides it into his beating heart!"

The crowd broke into fervent chanting and ecstatic prayer.

Edward hesitated, and he could feel the sweat pouring off of him. Then, turning the Redguard, he gazed into the other man's eyes. He couldn't ascertain what he was thinking, and he wanted desperately to know. Was it...was it possible that they could still enact their plan? Or had this all gone too far?

"Finish him, my brother!" Mankar called in euphonious tones, writhing in what seemed to be an expression of either terrible pain or excessive delight, or some combination of the two. "For Lord Dagon! Finish him!"

The crowd repeated his words, and fell to writhing in the same manner.

For his own part, Edward's mind was made up. Readying the dagger as collective murmurs of delight rose from all sides, he drove it down quickly. The crowd gasped as, rather than the knife plunging into Baurus' heart, it cut through the ropes binding his wrists.

This done, Edward shoved the hilt of the dagger into the Redguard's hands and leapt behind the statue of Lord Dagon. While it was true that he would rather die than spend eternity in the company of these clearly deranged zealots, he would still prefer to live. The savage was free; now he'd leave the business of their escape to him.


	157. Chapter 157

To My Beloved Brother of the Dawn, Karr,

Greetings and Blessings in the name of Lord Dagon: may you walk always in the light of His presence, bound to the glory of the coming Dawn. Be advised that the Emperor has resurfaced. His exact whereabouts are unknown at present, but my agents are working on this. I write to request that you assign constant surveillance to the residence of his mother and stepfather, that we may catch this toad as soon as may be, and crush him underfoot when he is caught.

Yours in our Lord Dagon,

Mankar Camoran

-- Letter from Mankar Camoran to a fellow member of the Mythic Dawn, a day before Edward and Baurus visited the Shrine of Dagon

Chapter One Hundred and Fifty-Seven

Baurus grasped the hilt of the dagger Edward had thrust into his hands as his eyes darted about the room. There were three, perhaps four dozen people here. That left him and Edward, who had darted away, presumably to retrieve a weapon of some sort, with odds that were highly unfavorable. But at least now he was free.

For half a moment, he'd thought that Edward had meant to go through with the sacrifice; it would have put him in good standing with Mankar Camoran for sure, and so, perhaps, put him in a better position to fight the Mythic Dawn...but still the thought was hardly a comforting one. He was glad to see it disproved.

Now, though, he was left with figuring out what to do, and doing it -- in about the one second or so he had left to him before the Mythic Dawn descended en masse on his position. There seemed nothing for it but to launch an offensive, at least until he and Edward could break out from the midst of the agents about them. "In the name of the Emperor, I place you all under arrest. Throw down your weapons and surrender or face the consequences," he called out authoritatively. He knew they wouldn't do it, but this move would at least throw them for a loop -- why, after all, would a single man challenge all of them unless he had something up his sleeve?

"Brother Edward!" Mankar Camoran called out, his voice rising in a pitch that was clearly supposed to express righteous anger, "You have deceived us; you have defied the will of Lord Dagon himself!"

"Silence, fool!" Baurus snapped. The last thing he wanted was this psycho whipping his followers into an even greater frenzy.

"I will not be silent, unbeliever!" Mankar called out. "I am not afraid of you and your little toy weapon -- not here, in the presence of my brothers and sisters, and in the sight of Lord Dagon himself!"

Baurus thought it better to end this as soon as possible, and so dove forward for the deranged preacher. Camoran backed away, chanting something quickly. Meanwhile, a high shriek that could only have been Edward's reached his ears, while, at the same time, his eyes noted the advancing movement of those around him. His best bet was to fell Mankar Camoran; even if he and Edward died after it was done, at least they would have silenced the mouthpiece of this cult once and for all.

Camoran backed away further yet, still chanting; his movement overturned the pulpit, but he seemed not to notice. Baurus was less than a yard away now -- nothing that a single bound would not cover.

Then, just as the Redguard's dagger lunged for him, the Prophet held up a glimmering red jewel. Baurus froze, pulling his blade back just in time.

"You will not touch me, unbeliever!" Mankar commanded in his most authoritative tones.

Baurus, at the sound of that voice, hesitated no longer. His first instinct had been to pull away from the amulet for fear of harming it; but no concern stayed his hand any longer. Mankar Camoran was the greatest threat the Empire had faced in his lifetime. He was a mortal man, who could die on a blade like any other mortal; but the Amulet was crafted by a god. Surely, even if Camoran was able to push it in the way of his dagger, it would survive. It would be the Prophet, and not the Amulet, who perished this day.

No sooner than had he moved for the leering Prophet, Baurus was again stopped. The very earth underneath his feet seemed to tremble and roar, and a noise of cracking so loud that the cavern itself might have been coming to pieces, sounded behind him. He saw a light flicker in Mankar Camoran's eyes, and he heard Edward shriek again.

All about him, the believers too had joined in the noise -- shrieking, crying, calling out in wonder. "Lord Dagon!" "Look, look at Lord Dagon!" "What befalls our lord?"

Turning for an instant, he saw what had caused the commotion -- the statue of Lord Dagon, bold and hideous as it rose above the platform, was collapsing into a million pieces.

His eyes flew back to Mankar Camoran, and he resumed the business of killing the usurper; the cavern itself might fall on them, but he would not rest until he knew the traitor had met a fitting end. He was too late, however.

The Prophet had taken advantage of the mere moment he'd been distracted, and finished the incantation he'd begun. A strange red portal had sprung up, apparently from the stones underfoot, and the traitor was headed for it.

"Stop!" Baurus called out, lunging for the other man.

But he was an instant too late; Mankar Camoran disappeared into the strange film of glowing red, and then the portal itself vanished. The next moment, the Blade landed with a tremendous crash on the spot where the traitor had stood seconds before.


	158. Chapter 158

Steadily following their plan,

The snowflakes fall from the heavens, the leaves from the trees, the raindrops from the sky.

Do men follow the same plan

When they find themselves cast down from the heights of glory, success, or prestige?

-- Excerpt from _On the Nature of Despair and Failure_

Chapter One Hundred and Fifty-Eight

As Lord Dagon -- or, "the Dragon," in the vernacular of Edward -- crumbled to pieces, so too did the courage of the Mythic Dawn disintegrate. Those of the agents who managed to evade being crushed by pieces of the statue fled. Baurus, bruised but not too badly injured by a piece of falling rubble, and Edward, huddling in the furthest corner of the cavern, where he'd fled as soon as the collapse began, found themselves quite alone in the Mythic Dawn's lair.

The Blade, having realized that the portal into which Mankar Camoran escaped, was magical in origin, and so beyond his power to recreate, had taken what stock he could, as quickly as was possible, of what lay around them. He had found one book by the fallen pulpit -- a strange, rune-covered volume that generated an aura of evil magic about it that even his unskilled magical powers could detect -- and decided this was worth taking. Then there was the lizard, Jeelius, who had been badly abused by his hosts, but was still alive.

Edward, however, had found nothing nor taken any time to consider their plight; he remained where he had fled, huddled in a sense of paralyzing terror. The fact that the statue of 'the Dragon' had crumbled was evidence enough to his mind that he'd betrayed a real and terrible god; then, as far as he could see, he was good and truly doomed.

So, when Baurus had grabbed him by the shoulder and hoisted him to his feet with the instructions, "Come on, let's get out of here before those cowards return," he had only feebly obeyed. Baurus, dragging Edward and assisting Jeelius, had led them out of the underground, and dispatched of what little resistance the Dawn presented.

Finally, they began their trek back to the city. Edward's panicked nerves had had a chance to calm during that trip, and he'd once more settled into the state of mind wherein he felt sure that nothing, be it man or god, could ever, really hurt him. And yet, he was extraordinarily depressed.

He had intended to flee his earthly misery, and ascend to a paradise wherein there would be no suffering; when he'd realized that that fate was an eternity of poets, song and nature – not to mention, religious fanatics – he'd hoped to redeem himself from his earlier failures. That plan too had met with misfortune...and now...now he was bound to return with not one mishap, but two, to account for.

To make matters even worse, the barbarian Baurus had insisted on saving the barbarian lizard; and said impudent lizard had had the audacity to thank the aforementioned barbarian Baurus at least twice or thrice for his rescue. Channeling his uncertainty and discomfort into a seething fury at his two companions, Edward had been quite put out by time they reached the Imperial City. He had been even more affronted when the Redguard had insisted that they escort Jeelius to the Temple of the One to be healed.

It was only when the barbarian Blade had declared that he was ready for a pint of ale that Edward's mood had lifted – and then only ever so slightly.

What had started at one pint of ale soon became two; and two became three; and so on, until both Redguard and Imperial found that drowning their woes had very nearly drowned their senses as well. Their speech was slurred, and the processes of their mind slowed; in Baurus, the change was quite remarkable, but not so much in Edward.

At the moment, thus inebriated, the Redguard was staring at the wall of the tavern, sighing discontentedly and commiserating over their joint misadventure.

"We were so close," he slurred. "We almost had the Amulet of Kings! Now we're up the creek without a paddle."

"We should have looked before we leaped," Edward nodded.

"Instead we're dead in the water," the Redguard sighed, taking another long draft from his glass. "No amulet, no leads, nothing..."

"And I...I was hoping this would make me a hero," Edward admitted.

"You counted your eggs before your chickens hatched," Baurus told him with an exaggerated and drunken authoritative nod.

"Chickens before your eggs hatched," the Imperial corrected.

"Exactly. But you forgot that a bird in hand is worth two in the bush."

"Hindsight is 20/20, though," Edward reminded him.

"Now we've run out of room to run."

"The Dragon has given us just enough rope to hang ourselves," the Imperial sighed.

Slamming his fist onto the table, the inebriated Blade's face turned gray with rage. "But enough is enough! No more mistakes!"

"But...but you can't change horses in the middle of the stream!" Edward protested.

"Better late than never! We've got to start doing things right sooner or later."

Edward sighed again. "You've lost sight of the forest for the trees, Baurus. We're gonna be hung out to dry by Jauffre, once he finds out what happened."

The Blade frowned meditatively. "Well...maybe if we stick together..."

"Not me! This was all your fault, and I'm not taking the fall for it!"

Baurus glared at him. "You will do as you're told!"

"Not this lifetime."

"But...but a ship cannot have two captains! United we stand, but divided we'll fall!"

"Divided _you'll_ fall," Edward corrected. "I'm the Emperor's personal friend, you're forgetting. And friendship runs thicker than water...err..."

"You...you dirty swine! Only rats desert a sinking ship!"

"Better to run away and live to fight another day," the Imperial shrugged.

"You...you fair-weather friend you!"

Edward shrugged again. "Better to be a fair-weather friend than a fair-weather enemy."

The Redguard snorted. "With friends like you around, who _needs_ enemies?"

Edward pondered that for a moment, but answered, "Your guess is as good as mine."


	159. Chapter 159

Beware the snare of the barbarian woman,

Who uses beauty and pretenses of charm,

Weapons wielded according to her plan,

Her prey to deceive and disarm.

– Excerpt from the chapter "Barbarian Pairing Rituals and Practices" of Marius the Lovelorn's _On the Barbarous Nature and Barbaric Practices of the Barbarian Peoples_

Chapter One Hundred and Fifty-Nine

After waking from their boozing spree and nursing their excruciating hangovers, the Redguard and the Imperial had set about planning their next move. For his part, Baurus was prepared to take whatever came his way. Their failure, he felt, was his fault, for he had been the most experienced member of the expedition; and though Edward might have cowered at the last, he had been wise in waiting to take action until he spotted the Amulet of Kings. Furthermore, any errors that the Imperial had made were surely attributable to himself, he felt, for it was he who had entrusted a civilian with so much responsibility.

There was one particular, however, that he was determined would be seen out to the letter – and that was delivering the ring and Martin's missive to Felicity Smolet. Edward protested and made a plethora of excuses, but the Blade would not be swayed. Whatever the Imperial's reasons for this delay might be, Baurus frankly didn't care.

So, arriving just after lunch with Edward in tow, he knocked at the Smolets' door. There was a delay, but then it opened. The Blade doffed his helmet as a vision of loveliness appeared before him.

"Miss Smolet?" he asked.

The beautiful creature nodded, her eyes passing from Baurus to Edward. A flicker of recognition crossed her face, and she asked, "Edmund?"

Baurus hardly noticed the Imperial glare at her. "We bring a message from Martin, milady," he said, finding his voice at last.

Her eyes lit up now, with a combination of sadness and joy. "Oh! He found Matthieus' ring then?"

The Blade nodded. "Yes, I'm afraid so."

She nodded. "Then they...the bandits, I mean...are dead?"

Nodding once more, he answered, "Quite."

"Good," she answered simply. Then, starting, she opened the door and stepped back to allow the men to enter. "I'm sorry...please, come in."

Ignoring the hiss of annoyance that escaped Edward's lips, the Redguard did as he was bid; he was only vaguely aware of the Imperial's trailing step and impatient sighing behind him.

The girl led them to a sitting room, and bade them sit down. Then she asked, "Can I get you anything? Tea, perhaps?"

Baurus shook his head. "No, thank you, milady."

She nodded, and then said, "Tell me everything, will you? Where did he find the bandits? And how did he dispatch of them? And why did he send you..." An expression of consternation passed across her face, and she paused. "He's not...that is, Martin was not..."

Baurus shook his head again. "No, no, he was not injured. He just...urgent business kept him in Bruma."

"Oh."

"But he requested his friend – Edward, here – to bring the ring and a letter from him to you."

She nodded. "Do you know how it happened? How he found them, I mean?"

"I know the facts," Baurus admitted, "but I wasn't there. Edward, and a mutual friend of the...of Martin's...were there, though. And another, a young elf."

She stared at him in surprise. "But...but the Bruma guard said there were at least a dozen of them!"

"That's right, milady."

"You mean...Martin and your friend were able to...to kill all of those men by themselves?"

Baurus nodded.

"You're forgetting me," Edward snapped, speaking for the first time. "And that fool Docada."

Felicity ignored this interruption, and asked of Baurus, "How did they do it? I never imagined...of course I hoped he would find them and avenge Mattheius, but I never imagined he would risk a full confrontation, or anything that...dangerous!"

Baurus repressed a slight smile. "All war is dangerous, milady. But you needn't fear for the...Martin. He's quite a warrior."

Felicity nodded. "Yes. Of course you're right. I've heard that he was the Arena Champion...so of course he is...but still..."

A hiss of disgust -- so loud that not even Baurus' admiring eyes could resist glancing away from Miss Smolet to the appalled Imperial -- echoed forth from Edward's lips. Clearing his throat, the Blade asked, "Yes, Edward?"

Handing over the ring and the note in a brusque manner, the antsy Imperial declared, "Here, now let us begone."

Baurus felt his face flush. "Forgive us, Miss...I think...that is, what my friend meant was that...well, we must return to Bruma as soon as possible. Martin is expecting us."

Felicity nodded, but her brow was creased in thought. "He is not...all is well with him, I trust?"

Baurus nodded, and hastened to assure her that this was the case.

"Good...because I should like to thank him, someday, in person for retrieving this ring for me. I feel that now...at last..." She broke off, her brow creased in thought and sadness.

Baurus nodded, and felt a pang in his chest. No wonder the Emperor had been adamant that they return this ring; what creature with a heart and soul could not be swayed by the raw innocence and gentle pain that this sweet woman's eyes conveyed?

As if in answer to his musings, Edward loosed another hiss of disgust.

Clearing his throat again, the Redguard declared, "Well, we must go. Goodbye, milady."

She rose with them, but then paused. "Can I...would I ask too much to beg you to remain a little longer – so that I can read Martin's letter, and pen one in return?"

Hastening to assure her that this was perfectly acceptable, Baurus shot a warning glance at the still hissing Edward. Then Felicity disappeared with the letter and ring in hand, leaving the Redguard to endure the muttered complaints of his ill-humored companion.


	160. Chapter 160

And worse even than the wenches are the men,

Who in their cunning act the part of the proper and chivalrous knight  
In trickery pretending to be other than vile barbarians;

Better it would be were they to take their prey by force and might!

– Excerpt from the chapter "Barbarian Pairing Rituals and Practices" of Marius the Lovelorn's _On the Barbarous Nature and Barbaric Practices of the Barbarian Peoples_

Chapter One Hundred and Sixty

The trip back to Cloud Ruler Temple had been one full of trepidation for both men, but Edward, standing before his Emperor, now wished it had taken at least twice as long. He was sure that the ungrateful oaf of a king – not to mention, his murderous, deranged chief warrior – would find some way to pin the entire mishap on him.

"And that, my lord, is how the Amulet got away," Baurus finished.

The Redguard had told the story well, pinning most of the blame on himself, Edward was delighted to note. Despite the few times he'd demurred and contradicted any suggestions of his own culpability, he nodded his assent at this rendition of events, which, though he'd never admit it aloud, was heavily slanted to his own benefit.

Martin's brow was creased with worry. "That's most unfortunate," he said at length. "But it's quite remarkable that you made it out alive." He shook his head. "It was a risky endeavor, but I cannot fault you for trying because at least you confirmed that Camoran has the amulet – and you both survived, and helped that poor Argonian priest."

Edward blinked in surprise at this mild reaction. Surely, he wondered in amazement, the fool wasn't going to let Baurus get off that easily, was he?

"And I thank you for delivering my message to Felicity – and bringing this one back."

Baurus nodded. "Of course, my liege."

"And this book..." Martin frowned at the tome. "There is a great evil to this thing."

"Yes, my lord...but I thought that it might...well, if it was that evil, perhaps we might discover something of our enemy..."

Martin nodded. "Quite right. I'm glad you handled it carefully, though...in the hands of a weaker nature, the Divines alone know what havoc it could wreak."

"Never fear, my lord," the Redguard answered. "I didn't let Edward touch it."

The Imperial shot a furious glance at his companion, feeling all the angrier over his sincere countenance.

"That's not what I meant," Martin returned. Then, pausing, he added, "Although that was probably good thinking." Edward glared at his Emperor, who quickly amended his statement. "That is...I mean, better not to expose any one more than is strictly necessary to its malignant influence."

"My thoughts too, my lord," Baurus agreed. "Some of them, at least."

Edward stared daggers at the Redguard, but Martin nodded and continued. "You both return at a most opportune moment...Jauffre has just discovered – and dispatched of – a nest of spies in Bruma."

"Spies, my lord?"

"That's right. Apparently they learned about Cloud Ruler Temple somehow."

Edward felt his cheeks flaming, and he threw a furtive glance at the Redguard. Surely the barbarian wouldn't be low enough to sell him out, would he?

To the Imperial's relief, Baurus remained impassive, save for what seemed like a flicker of comprehension that shot across his face.

"Jauffre discovered plans, too...talk of an attack on Bruma, and some sort of gate."

"Gate, my lord?"

"Yes...Jauffre believes they referenced a gate from Oblivion itself."

A grim expression crossed Baurus' face, and he asked, "And what is done to prepare for this attack, my lord? I suppose there is nothing we can do to preempt it?"

"Jauffre is seeing that there are more patrols in the hills; and our own set of spies in Bruma. But if they know we are in these mountains, it is only a matter of time before they find out where."

Baurus nodded. "I see. And...what defenses are we preparing?"

Martin sighed. "Grandmaster Jauffre is overseeing most of them," he admitted. "He thinks...that is, he says...well, that we would be able to withstand any attack." Baurus and the Emperor frowned at the same moment. "But I thought...well, that it might be a good idea to appeal to the surrounding cities. Particularly if the attack _is_ launched against Bruma itself...we cannot imperil the lives of so many innocent citizens by virtue of their proximity to us..."

"No my lord...summoning aid sounds like a very good plan. And who will refuse to aid their Emperor, after all?"

Martin nodded. "Jauffre doesn't like the plan, but I've already chosen my ambassadors."


	161. Chapter 161

The fires of Oblivion gather on the horizon,

Waiting in the wings to engulf all,

To plunge the world into the dark days once more

And in the face of such danger,

Behold now the idiocies of the god's chosen!

-- From _God in Exile_, collective thoughts of Tiber Septim

Chapter One Hundred and Sixty-One

At first, Edward was quite pleased to find out that he had been chosen as one of the Emperor's ambassadors. Once he had learnt, however, that Docada had also been chosen – and heard rumors that this choice was meant to get the singing elf as far away from everyone else as possible before violence was done him – he was less thrilled.

The proverbial nail in the coffin came when the Emperor had quietly imparted to Edward that he was entrusting Docada's care to his friend's personal oversight, at least until they reached Skingrad. "The Blades are soldiers, and used to working with fellow soldiers. But you understand Docada's temperament – he is your understudy, after all. That's why I'm sending him to Kvatch, and you to Skingrad...so you can see him safely to your destination. And it's only a quick hike from the one city to the next, so I'm sure he'll be fine." Nor had it filled him with confidence that Martin had added, "Oh, and be sure to be very polite and diplomatic with Count Hassildor of Skingrad...I've heard that his patience for visitors is quite short. That's why I thought it better to send you there, and let Docada consult with Count Goldwine of Kvatch."

So it was with great malice in his heart that Edward, accompanied by seven others, set out to seek aid for Bruma. Docada was in high spirits, and given to song as they rode; it was, then, no surprise to Edward that the other members of their party quickly found divergent paths for their task, despite the fact that they could yet have rode together for a space.

No amount of threats would sway the elf, who seemed bursting with pride at having been chosen as one of the Emperor's ambassadors, from this annoying occupation. So he sang, and sang, and sang some more, composing off-key ballads on the fly and improvising as he performed existing works. Indeed, Edward greatly suspected that his own irritation served as ample inspiration for the Bosmer, for the little fellow seemed to work with greater glee and determination with every barrage of insults and threats that the Imperial sent his way.

When, after many infuriating days had passed, the city of Skingrad came into view, Edward was ready to cry with relief. Docada, with a final farewell, disappeared in the direction of Kvatch, the sound of his voice still carrying on the breeze when he was far out of sight; and Edward hastened to the city, as much to be around people that he would not feel like murdering on sight as to escape the sounds of the elf's voice.

After stabling his horse, he headed directly for the castle. He didn't feel terribly diplomatic as he demanded of the Count's steward, Mercator Hosidus, "I am Edward, come to speak with your lord. Now, fetch him, will you, servant?"

The blue-eyed Imperial had scoffed at him then, demanding in turn, "Perhaps you are unaware of whom you're addressing, visitor?"

Edward snorted. "You're the Count's lackey, aren't you? Now fetch your master!"

Mercator Hosidus drew himself up tall at Edward's impudence, and said in a superior tone of voice, "The Count will not see you now. Not now, not ever. He sees no one."

The visiting Imperial stared at the steward. "Who do you think you are to refuse admittance to me, oaf?"

"I'm Mercator Hosidus, the Count's steward. I believe that's all you need to know. Now, you'll kindly take yourself out of here at once – or I'll have the guards remove you less kindly."

When Edward hesitated in his departure to complain at such barbarous treatment, the steward summoned a guardsman. Without a word, the soldier dragged the screaming, irate Imperial to the dungeons.


	162. Chapter 162

There once was a worthless lout,

Who in darkness ran all about,

In terror and fear,

Foolish beyond compare,

Ever ready to cower and route!

– _The Imperial, Edward_, unattributed

Chapter One Hundred and Sixty-Two

While Edward was spending the night in the Skingrad dungeons, Docada was faring significantly better in Kvatch. He had arrived at the castle just after the Count had retired from granting audiences; so, with a polite nod and farewell to the castle steward, he headed into town. The city was a lively one, with the calls of merchants beckoning passersby to take a final look at their wares before the shop was closed; with raucous laughter, screams and hoots issuing forth from the taverns; with the giggles and yaps of children and dogs as they ran about playing; with the ordered counting of soldiers' voices as they drilled; and the noises that generally comprised the hubbub of a busy city.

Docada smiled. This reminded him of his home, the Imperial City. The laughter, the screams, the overall din...it was familiar to the wood elf. His kind in general tended to hate this sort of thing – loud noises shut in behind stone walls – but he loved it. It was what he had grown up with, and what he relished. Open plains and unkempt trees might appeal to some natures, but not to his. Wild, untamed nature was uncouth in comparison to the glorious beauty of the bustling city. The twittering of the bird and the rustle of the breeze was insufficient when contrasted to the roar of the city or the tumult of the masses; the unpaved path and the overgrown hedge paled in comparison to the ordered way and the stone walk.

Which is not to say, of course, that Docada disliked nature; no indeed. In his mind, nature was like hair – delightful in its own right if it was subdued, channeled, perfected by human hands. A tree or a plant left to its own devices was an unruly, rebellious, unpleasant sort of thing; but when planted in just such a spot, and trimmed in just such a way, it became a work of art, a glorious melding of the unpredictable natural world with the ordered human world. And, of course, it never got in his way, if it was all put exactly where it was supposed to go, and kept in check by stone and pruning sheers.

So, satisfied with his comparison of nature and hair, and admiring how in Kvatch, nature – much like the glorious, twisted pouf atop his head – was brought into beautiful harmony with man, the elf sought for means to amuse himself.

If there was a single difficulty inherent to bustling cities, he thought, it was that it always seemed difficult to decide how best to entertain oneself. And though that was certainly not the worst of things, he found himself undecided for several moments. He was drawn at first to the shops – perusing the items for sale, finding the finest silks and scents, the best tailors and hairdressers...he had always possessed a penchant for that. But never having had enough of the coin of the realm to indulge this particular inclination – and it not being terribly popular with his peers either – he'd long been in the habit of finding other avenues of pleasure. Now that the shopkeepers were fastening their stalls and readying to close their shops for the evening, it seemed that he'd have to forgo pursuing this delight yet again.

So, he searched for those things that had pleased him in the Imperial City. "Excuse me, sir," he accosted a passerby, "but is there a poet's meet or coffee house nearby?"

The man nodded, and gave the elf directions.

Expressing his thanks in a most verbose fashion, the Bosmer then hastened for _The Sage's Way_. This was a smallish building of immaculate appearance, and a welcoming outward air. Docada smiled and entered.

What he saw inside was every bit what he hoped to find; little tables, here and there, around which sat half a dozen or so youths, and a counter at which sat another half dozen. Some of these patrons sat by themselves, quill in hand and pensive expression upon their brow; still others gathered in groups, speaking in subdued tones of great import.

Heading first to the counter, Docada ordered for himself a strongly brewed coffee concoction. If this place proved to be as good as its atmosphere indicated, he wanted his senses to be alert and ready; with such inspiration as he knew he'd find here, the Muse might strike at any moment. Now, he would be ready!


	163. Chapter 163

Spin a little tale, invention all the way

And you'll be doubted by none;

But speak true, and before you're done

There won't be one to hear what you say.

-- _On the Virtues of Lying_, by Ni'pravda the Virtuous Liar, of the Virtuous Order of Maiq the Liar

Chapter One Hundred and Sixty-Three

The Bosmer had been invited to a table occupied by four others – Darvyl, a sad-looking Dunmer who was about his own age, Arabella, a Breton girl who was perhaps a few years older, Volkus, a youngish, round-faced Imperial whose exact age was hard to ascertain, and Teop, a Khajiit. Having little knowledge of the cat people, Docada was pretty much lost as to his new friend's age; but all four seemed pleasant enough people, and the Khajiit was no exception.

"So you are new to this town, my friend?" the Breton asked him.

Docada nodded. "Yes. I am originally from the Imperial City, but just now from...well, from very near Bruma."

"Bruma?"

"That's right. I was in the service of a friend."

"Ah! Well, what brings you here?"

"Actually, I'm here to speak to the Count."

A murmur of interest rose from those at his table.

"Are you a bard?" the Khajiit asked.

"Oh no," Docada answered deprecatingly. "At least...not yet."

"I'm afraid you will have a hard time with your interview," Arabella told him. "I fear the Count is a bit of a philistine."

"Oh?"

"Yes...he's no appreciation for art or poetry or music."

"He hasn't had a poet or storyteller at court in years," Darvyl sighed. The others nodded in agreement.

"Not that _we_ care anyway," Volkus shrugged. "The Muse is not subject to financial demands, and does not perform for them. _Our_ art is above vulgar commerce."

His companions quickly murmured their agreement. "It's just that some of the amateurs, those who pursue poetry as less than a way of life, depend on the nobility to act as their patrons," Arabella explained. "And Ormellius Goldwine is too great a vulgarian to realize what a disservice he does to our county – to say nothing of his reputation – by his obstinate refusal to introduce a bit of culture and class to the boorish Kvatch Court."

Docada nodded, his brow creased with worry. "That's very disappointing. Martin had said that Count Goldwine is a very noble man."

"Martin?"

"Oh, sorry – my friend, the one I spoke of earlier."

"I see...well, I fear your friend is very much mistaken."

Docada sighed.

"Cheer up, friend," Volkus smiled. "I'm sure you'll have better luck at another court."

"Huh? Oh, no, you misunderstand," the Bosmer flushed. The last thing he wanted was for these great minds to think that he was one of the vulgar amateurs who deigned to sell the treasured inspiration of the Muse – at least, not at a mere county Court. "I'm not here for employment...I've come to..." Then, he stopped and flushed again.

"To?" Arabella prompted, speaking the question that all eyes asked.

"Well..." Docada hesitated. "I'm not sure if I'm at liberty to say..."

"I see," Arabella sniffed. "Of course, if you don't think we're trustworthy enough..."

"No, no," the elf hastened to assure her. "It's not that at all...it's just that this is of grave importance, and I don't know..." Then, seeing the eager gazes that were turned his way, he shrugged. After all, he was sure that this news would get out soon enough – he was about to announce it to the Count in a few hours, wasn't he? "Well, as long as it's not made generally known, yet at least," he thought aloud.

"Good heavens, no!" the Breton assured him. "What is said in these walls, in a bower of intellectual camaraderie, is safe in the hearts of those who heard it. Is it not so, my friends?"

The others hastened to assure Docada of the veracity of Arabella's assertion, and he smiled. He understood again why he was drawn to a life as the Muse's servant, as the voice of inspiration for his Emperor, and as the mouthpiece of the Great Inspiration. There was no honesty, no loyalty, no friendship like that which could be found amongst an unprepossessing band of humble poets. "Very well," he said. "Indeed, I have wanted to tell the news already – I've been fairly bursting with it – but, until now, I've found no one trustworthy enough to whom I may speak."

"Oh?"

"Yes...you see, the friend of whom I spoke, Martin? I met him at the Arena in the Imperial City – he was a gladiator then." A few murmurs of interest greeted this statement. "You may have heard of him – but you would have heard of his Arena name, and not his real name. He is Dragonheart."

"The new Grand Champion?" Teop asked, a furry eyebrow raised in a disbelieving manner.

"Exactly."

The Khajiit scoffed. "Are you saying that you know the Grand Champion?"

"Of course," the elf nodded, too excited to take note of the other's disbelief. "Not only know him, but was his understudy, training to be like him. That was before..." Here, he lowered his voice. "Before we discovered that he was the Emperor's – Uriel Septim's – heir!"

Four sets of astonished and not at all convinced eyes stared at the Bosmer, who hurriedly proceeded with his tale.


	164. Chapter 164

Hear my voice, my children,

Listen, as I speak to you,

Understand my words, wise ones,

And believe not one of them!

-- Maiq the Liar, addressing the Virtuous Order of Maiq the Liar

Chapter One Hundred and Sixty-Four

Docada had wrapped up a disjointed but passably coherent rendition of his meeting with Martin and their sojourn at Cloud Ruler Temple. "So, you see, that's why I'm here – because we need to find someone who will come back and defend the fortress!"

The four listeners again exchanged glances, and for a time no one spoke. Then Arabella broke the silence. "Are you...you do realize that Skooma is illegal in Kvatch, don't you?"

Docada blinked. "What?"

"Well, if you go around telling people stories like that, they're going to know that you've been...imbibing. And you're liable to get in trouble," she shrugged in a manner that was a cross between helpful and condescending. "It's a significant offense."

"Skooma?" the elf repeated, feeling his cheeks burn again. "I...that is, I don't...I've never!"

"Yes, yes," Teop consolingly agreed. "Still, better not to risk any mistaken accusations."

"In fact," Darvyl offered, "it would probably be better if you left this place now."

Docada stared, agape. He couldn't believe this – not only had they pried the story from him, but now they were doubting his word! "Leave?!"

"Yes," Volkus agreed. "They've been a number of raids on this place lately as it is...the last thing we need is them finding you here..."

"Raids?" Docada sputtered, his indignation rising to extreme levels. "How dare you, you...you uncultured oafs! Just because you are not worthy of serving the Emperor, and traveling with him, and being the only bard in his employ, that does not mean that I am not!"

Mixed expressions crossed the faces of his audience, depicting various shades of amusement had, annoyance felt, and umbrage taken at these words. The affronted Bosmer halted his verbal onslaught, thinking, perhaps, that his point had been sufficiently made.

"Look here, little teller of such bad stories," the Khajiit told him, "it is time for you to take yourself and your bright hair out of this place."

"The sooner the better," Arabella seconded.

Docada stared in stupefaction at the insolent group. Then, finding his voice, he declared in high, furious tones, "You will see, you fools! I will tell the Emperor of how you have just snubbed his envoy...and then you will be sorry! I am but the humble slave of a great king – and unlike you, I do not call my master a philistine, nor disparage him; for my master is a cultured and fine one, an Emperor like no other!"

Snickering, and then outright laughter, greeted this pronouncement.

Docada's cheeks flamed a crimson so deep that it contrasted in a mortifying manner with his yellow hair. "Laugh if you will," he exclaimed, his voice high and reedy, "but you will see which of us laughs the last! The Emperor _is_ come to us! He is here, come from obscurity to retake his throne; and I am his servant! You will see – Martin Septim is returned!"

With this, he turned on his heel and stomped out of the establishment, leaving a chorus of laughter behind him.


	165. Chapter 165

Mysterious, red-robed visitors spotted throughout Cyrodiil!

Word has come to us from all cities of mysterious, red-robed visitors appearing suddenly in major cities across the empire. We do not know who these people are, but we understand that the robes must represent some joint cause or group. As to what has caused the sudden emergence of these people, we are likewise ignorant. Nonetheless, it seems of sufficient interest to our readers to note this curious happening.

(Hand scrawled note, written in the margins: Translation: nothing happened this week.")

-- Black Horse Courier, Special news Bulletin

Chapter One Hundred and Sixty-Five

Docada was laying in the room he'd just rented, crying loudly. He couldn't believe how badly those people had treated him – daring to cast aspersions upon his sanity and honesty, and to kick him – him! – out. If it had been someone despicable and low, like Edward, he would not have minded; he might have even laughed it off. But for them – thinkers and servants of the Muse, like himself – to treat him like that?

He loosed another round of high wails to the air about him. It was beyond comprehension that these people, his intellectual kinsfolk, could treat him so poorly, particularly when he had disclosed facts of such paramount importance to the entire empire to their ears and theirs alone – before even their Count hard heard them.

Lost in bouts of weeping, feeling first pity, then anger, then pity again, sweep him, Docada at last settled into an uneasy sleep. His dreams were haunted with visions of performing before the Emperor and his entire court, only to be laughed and jeered at as he delivered his best poems and songs. As he dreamt, it seemed there was nothing that he could do, neither rhyme nor story, that would please the audience of philistines who gathered to watch him.

Despairing of ever pleasing anyone, he heard in his dream the one voice that had started it all – the insolent Breton girl, Arabella, calling his name. "Docada!"

Starting out of sleep, he realized that he was covered in sweat, and his breath was coming in short, ragged gasps.

"Where is he, you stupid elf?!"

Docada started a second time. The voice that he'd heard in his dream was here as well, when he was no longer dreaming, but awake and in his own room. "Wha-what?" he asked peering into the darkness about him. It was then that other noises began to assail his ears; distant and faint though they were, as if coming from outside, he heard screams and cries and the sounds of some tremendous thing falling. "Hello? Whose there? What's going on?!" he screeched in terror.

The flicker of a match being lit cast the room into a shadowy light; the elf saw the flame reflect in two eyes, and a face appear in ghastly form behind it. For a moment, he stared in blind horror at the flickering phantom; and then his senses began to ebb back, and he recognized the face. "Arabella?" he asked, feeling suddenly very silly and self-conscious. "What...what are you doing here?" It was the first time he'd woke to find a girl, other than a nurse or caretaker, in his room. It seemed very awkward to wake in such a panic to see a pretty woman staring at him – even if she had insulted him and called him a Skooma addict.

"Where is he?" she repeated, as a candle flickered to light in her hand.

"Him? Who?"

"The Emperor, you little lout!"

"The Emperor?" Docada repeated, taken aback by this nasty greeting. "He's...wait...I thought you didn't believe me?"

"Of course I believed you, twit," the girl answered. "That's why I had to distract those fools...so I could get to him before them."

Docada's jaw clenched. "You might as well forget it," he declared. "I'm his minstrel, and his decision is final."

"Minstrel?" the girl repeated. "I'm not here to ask for a job, you moron! I'm here to kill him – and you, for that matter!"

Docada stared in wondering horror into the eyes that gleamed out at him from behind that candle. "Kill the Emperor? Kill Martin? Kill _me_?"

"Yes! Now where is he? Tell me, and I promise I'll make it quick...otherwise, you'll suffer more in a few minutes than you've ever done in your worthless life, elf."

Docada gulped back the fear he felt. "Why...who are you?"

"I'm an agent of the Mythic Dawn, fool. And your Emperor must be an idiot to entrust his secrets to you."


	166. Chapter 166

Beware what you say,

And to whom it's said,

For if you're not careful,

You might wind up dead...

-- An excerpt from a piece translated in the scholarly work "_Writings of Old, Dead People_"

Chapter One Hundred and Sixty-Six

"I had a hard time believing our luck," Arabella was continuing with a sneer. "But what you said checked out...so I'm going to give you one last chance...where is he?"

"I wouldn't tell you if my life depended on it," Docada returned in what he hoped was a brave tone, although he felt himself shaking as he spoke. "I would never betray my Emperor."

"Your life _does_ depend on it, fool. At least, whether you spend what's left of it in the most excruciating agony you've ever known, or whether you die in peace."

The Bosmer felt his innards begin to perform most unquieting acrobatics. "You...you wouldn't dare," he said at last. "There's...there's people out there. They'll hear you!"

The girl snorted and stepped quickly over to the window. Drawing the heavy drapes back with a brusque pull, she said, "You really are dense. The town's being ripped to pieces out there, and you really think they're going to worry about your cowardly rear?"

Docada's eyes went to the window as a strange reddish glow filled the room; then he gasped. Kvatch was in flames. "What...how...?" he gasped.

A sudden intense heat drew his attention, and he turned to find the flames of the candle half an inch from his face, while the point of a dagger pricked the skin of his neck. "Last chance, elf..." Arabella was saying. "We do it the easy way, or I have fun with you."

He could feel every hair on his body stand on end as the heat of the flame scorched his skin. "Please..." he begged. "I'll do whatever you say...but I can't betray the Emperor!"

At that moment, a blob of hot wax dripped from the candle onto his bare skin. Agony shot through him, and a blind, panicking sense that he had to get away from what was hurting him pushed all fear from his mind; in an instant, he was out of bed, pushing the dagger, the candle, and she who held both, aside as if they were a child's toys. Once up, he ran as fast as his legs could carry him; bursting out of his bedroom in his nightshirt, he fled on bare feet. He could hear Arabella's furious scream behind him, and that seemed to give speed to him.

He was down the stairs in seconds, and then, pushing the inn door open, onto the street. Horror swept him, and he froze for half an instant. Everywhere about him, the city lay in ruin. Flames leaped from half destroyed buildings as children ran past screaming in terror. The walls were rent, and horrible creatures several heads taller than men, with skin gray as a stormy sky and eyes red as Oblivion, roamed the street, carrying huge, cruel weapons. Soldiers chased these creatures and were chased by them; and civilians fled. Docada had no trouble realizing that he fell into this latter category, and so took once more to running.

He could hear Arabella's shrill voice behind him, calling, "Stop the elf! Stop the elf!" He noticed vaguely as the hulking gray beasts began to fall in line with the Mythic Dawn agent, in pursuit of him; but he was running as fast as his legs could carry him, leaping over rubble and tearing through the city like a rabbit pursued by a fox – or, in this case, a band of foxes.

Tearing around the corner of a fallen home, it was with consternation of the worst sort that he saw a giant, revolving eye-like entity not twenty feet in front of him. The thing moved slowly, and made a whirring sort of noise; but slowness did nothing to impede the long pincer-like appendages, and the oblivion-fire that it burnt. For an instant, dread terror seized his faculties; and in the next, he realized that it must be a siege engine of some diabolical sort – probably the very one that had taken down the walls of the city.

Yelping in fright, he darted past this monstrosity as quickly as he could, and continued running. He could hear the creatures close behind him now, and terror toyed with his heart. Bursting out of the rent walls of the city, he paused in wondering fear a second time. Four strange, fiery red magical portals had appeared outside Kvatch's walls – three smaller, and one tremendous in size. They seemed each to glow with oblivion fire, and to provide a faint glimpse into the netherworld; and yet one could see clear through them to the other side. It was a strange and terrible vision, as if seeing two worlds overlap one another – one of earthly beauty, and another hellish grisliness.

A grasping claw piercing his flesh, and the air that whooshed by him as the hand and arm owning that claw swept past him, awakened Docada from his distracted reverie; and again he was off.

He intended to flee the city, to run far away where these creatures would not pursue him; but suddenly, appearing on the other side of the gates, there spawned more of these demons. Behind him, he could feel the hot breath of the one who had injured him mingling with the blood dripping from his new wound.

Docada darted to one side, but saw that this too was blocked by enemies.

"Catch him!" Arabella's voice called. "He knows where the Emperor is!"

One of the giant gray men lunged for him, and the elf had barely time to avoid capture. He took the one avenue open to him – and that was straight for the gate. At last, his back to this glowing portal and enemies all around, he faced his choice: enter the planes of Oblivion and perhaps escape, or face the creatures of that netherworld here and now.

Falling into the habit that had served him well so far in life, Docada chose flight; and so the elf pushed through the portal, into the wastelands of Oblivion.


	167. Chapter 167

Haughtiness befits a king well,

But the common man should trust to humbleness.

For what right of birth gives a king,

He without must earn with virtue and character.

-- _The Old Ways_, a translation of the ancient sages' writings

Chapter One Hundred and Sixty-Seven

Edward's voice was wearing thin as the light of dawn broke into his cell; he had been screaming nonstop since he'd been imprisoned. So far, it had had no effect, save to convince the insolent prison guard to withhold his ration of supper. But Edward had had no intention of eating anyway; he had committed no crime, and would not be held in such disgraceful conditions and in such unjust circumstances. He would scream in protest until they freed him, or cut out his tongue; and he hoped they would choose the former rather than latter avenue of silencing him.

The other prisoners, furious at having been kept up all night, had joined in screaming – although they were screaming for the guards to do their duty and put an end to the Imperial's wailing at any cost.

The din was near deafening when an outer guard appeared, glaring at all the screaming prisoners. "Shaddup you scum!" he roared. "You're keeping the respectable folks awake upstairs, and I'm taking heat for it!"

"But he's keeping us up!" one prisoner whined.

"Who said that?" the guard demanded, turning a fierce gaze on all the inmates, one after the other.

Most cringed and recoiled from the bars, but Edward glared in turn at the guard. "He did," the Imperial answered, pointing at the Redguard who had spoken.

The guard's eyes bulged. "Who gave you permission to speak, maggot?!" he demanded.

Edward raised an eyebrow. "You asked..."

"I asked nothing from you!" the other man barked. "You're to shut your mouth until you're spoken to!"

"I will not!" Edward returned furiously. "I've been unjustly imprisoned, and I refuse -- refuse! -- to be silent until I'm let out of this prison!"

"You'll shut up or I'll pull your tongue out, maggot!" the guard roared.

The Imperial gulped and paused his tirade for a moment; but, in the next, fury won out over fear, and he resumed. "Never! Do you worst, you fat fool -- I'll protest my unwarranted imprisonment until the last hour of my life, with the last drop of my blood, with the last ounce of my strength, with the last breath of my lungs, with the last -"

"Shut up!!" the soldier screamed, his face going purple and red with rage.

"Never!" Edward returned just as fiercely. "Not until you let me out of here!"

This provocation was too much for the guard. Shaking with rage, he started toward the Imperial's cell; but then, he stopped. Still visibly trembling, be began what seemed like a sort of focus, or channeling, of his rage, for, his head bowed and his shoulders hunched, his trembling lessened and lessened -- while, at the same time, his hands began to glow. Then, suddenly, he drew his head up, and his eyes glowed with a strange bluish tint. The next moment, Edward saw a pulsing light emanate from the soldier's hands; and then he felt it swarm him.

The Imperial tried to struggle, to scream out at this new persecution, but he was suddenly powerless; his senses were keenly aware as he fell to the ground, but his limbs were paralyzed. Indeed, his entire body seemed paralyzed, for, try as he might, he could not utter so much as a sound.

The guard walked over and peered down at him through the bars. A smile crossed the other man's lips. "Ah!" he declared. "I finally got that spell!"

A thousand curses raced through Edward's mind at breakneck speed -- which was the best that he could do at present.

"There now...since this is all settled," the guard was continuing, "you may as well know that you're getting out in an hour...Steward Hosidus had you sent here for the evening. However, since you've provoked an outcry from your fellow prisoners -- one might say, attempted to start an uprising in the prisons -- you're going to face stricter punishments." The guard pursed his lips, as if deep in thought. "Now let's see...I could keep you in this prison for awhile longer...and you are a good subject for my arcane studies...but then, you did have rather a fat purse...perhaps I will just fine you."

Edward's eyes bulged, paralyzing spell or no spell. Finally, at long last, he could call his own a sufficient amount of the coin of the realm -- given to him for "whatever necessity may arise" by Martin -- and this insolent guard meant to rob him? "Never!" he managed to scream over the effects of the spell. "Not my money!"


	168. Chapter 168

The river runs to the sea,

The sea leads to worlds unknown,

Worlds have rivers of their own,

And in the end, back to the sea.

-- _The Sea_, author unknown

Chapter One Hundred and Sixty-Eight

The night had been giving way to day when Docada had stepped into the Oblivion gate; how long ago that was, now, the elf was not sure. Here, in the Planes of Oblivion, there was no way to be sure, for there were no moons, no sun, no stars to guide one's way. There was only darkness, lit by the glow of lava and fire.

The air itself was sulfurous and painful to the lungs, while the ground underfoot was of the hardest rock imaginable, in places hot as Oblivion-fire. Every breath was a laborious effort of strained, agonized lungs, and every step a fresh orderal for the elf's bruised and bloodied feet. Yet, still, he ran.

The creatures of Oblivion swarmed at his heels, and he could hear their strangled curses and throaty threats. He saw the forms of prisoners -- human, if one could tell by the charred and mutilated ruins of their bodies, prisoners -- scattered here and there, in such a state of destruction that the elf was determined that these creatures, these monsters, would never lay a hand on him. Before these fiends captured him, he would throw himself into the lava below, or from the parapet of a balcony on one of those high towers that loomed up in the distance.

For someone who loved life and despised the notion of death as much the happy-go-lucky Bosmer, this was indeed a resolution of some magnitude; and yet the evidence of his senses convinced him that there was no other way, that it was better to die and be done with life than to linger in suffering beyond compare before the inevitable end.

Finding that his path had led to one of the towers that dotted the hellish landscape, Docada pushed through the door. He was not surprised to see more monsters -- some of the grayish ones that pursued him, as well as humanoid creatures covered from head to toe in hideous armor, and giant beasts with razor sharp claws and huge, hideous mouths full of large, fearsome teeth. He had the element of surprise on them, however, and was able to rush past before they could attack him.

The floor in here was composed of smooth, hard rock, but it at least contained none of the patches of fiery hot stone that the elf encountered on the Planes; his feet carried him with more assurance now, and he tackled the winding ramps with newfound vigor. Perhaps it was the very architecture of this place, so hellish in design, or the strange spire of spitting flame that rose upward from the middle of the tower; but something gave new strength to Docada's weary limbs and new courage to his frightened heart.

So he ran, winding his way ever upward, and amassing a larger and larger collection of beasts and humanoids in pursuit of him as he went. At first, his reinvigoration seemed to grant him immunity from fatigue; but, as the toothlike arches of shimmering black became familiar, and as he grew accustomed to seeing the strange and terrible flame spire, the reality of his situation and his own weariness returned.

He had run more today than he had probably ever run in his life; and he had certainly seen more terrors in this short time than he'd ever dreamt of.

Bursting into an open chamber, Docada saw a set of fang-like stairs, and then a high plateau. "Oh my Emperor!" he called out in despair. "Forgive me, but I think my service to you must come to an end...I am spent!"

Stumbling for the stairs, he willed himself to run; the beasts were still close at hand, and he was determined that they would not take him. Every step was a challenge, and brought with it a new wave of agonized fatigue; but he did not falter. The end was close at hand, and he would meet it.

At last, his weary feet had reached the ledge, and he raced to the edge. There was the spire of fire before him, still climbing, and below...the abyss.

Docada breathed out a final time, and readied to throw himself over the edge of the platform. A sense of failure as deep and terrifying as the abyss swept him as he realized that this -- this -- was it. He was about to die, in the faraway wastelands of Oblivion. His life was to end when he should have had so many long years yet to live out; his plans were all come to naught, and his dreams and hopes and aspirations were to pass with him, unrealized. He was to leave this life having achieved absolutely nothing; and the world would go on without him as if he had never lived in it, as if he had never breathed the fresh air of spring or bathed in the summer sunlight, as if he had never composed poetry under somber autumn skies or read the works of literary greats by his fireplace in the dead of winter...as if he had never been.

Staring into his own reflection as it glimmered back at him in the surface of a strange round globe, Docada felt time stand still, and his own knees shake underneath him. This was it. He was here, perched above his doom, with a horde of netherworld beasts on his heels. This was it.

Then, something inside him stirred. That...that couldn't be _his_ reflection! "_No, not that dirty, shivering, little elf all smeared with soot, dressed only in a torn and dirtied nightshirt, with his hair..._" Docada started in horror. "Ye gods!" he exclaimed in anguish. "No! Not my hair!"

Reaching a hand to the exquisite mass atop his head to confirm that the reflective orb distorted and lied, Docada felt his heart sink. No longer did his hair poof and twist in his masterful, characteristic way; instead, just as that accursed reflection showed, it hung about his ears and neck in a disgusting, straggly, unfashionable mess, half charred and singed away.

Horror filled him as he wondered how -- how! -- this tragedy could have occurred. Was it the heat of this place, or the interminable nervous sweating he'd done every since entering? Had it washed away the gels and mousses, the creams and sprays, that went into his masterpiece?

If there had been one expression of his life, it was his hair; and now these beasts, this hellish place, had robbed him of even that!

The blood in the elf's veins seemed to turn to fire, and he felt fear and remorse turn to blinding rage within him. Fatigue and despair were things of the past, so distant at that moment that they might well have existed in another realm, outside of the elf's sphere of existence.

While his fury raged hot, a cold lull had taken over his thoughts; he had no fears, no ambitions, no regrets -- nothing, beyond the need to slay the monsters who had so grievously abused him. The fact that he was barefooted and clothed only in a nightshirt made no difference to him, and the fact that he carried no weapon of any kind was no more a hindrance than the first. He would kill them, and kill them all, for what they had done.

Spinning around and charging his pursuers, he saw a look of surprise fill the eyes of the monster in the lead of the pack. The humanoid lifted his sword for a strike, but Docada was faster than he; in an instant, he'd delivered a full-force elbow strike at the creature's kilted groin area.

A groan of agony preceded the thing crumpling to the ground helplessly. Docada lunged for the sword that he'd dropped. It was a heavy weapon -- far heavier than the elf would have been able to easily lift, much less wield, under normal circumstances -- but, so much adrenaline pumping through his veins, it seemed the easiest thing in the world for the Bosmer to use.

His training in swordplay had never gone well, but it did not show as he parried, dodged and thrusted like a pro, with a hellish rage, the like of which these creatures of Oblivion had never before seen. The platform quickly transformed into a field of slaughter, with Docada cutting through the demonspawn as if it was child's play. Two, three, then four humanoid monsters fell before his fury. A spider-creature was next; the elf did not even register surprise at seeing this strange humanish spider, so intent on killing it was he.

He struck once, and it staggered backwards; he lifted the heavy blade for a second strike even as the spider recoiled. The blade flashed forward, and the spider shrieked with fury. A bolt of bluish energy sprang from her chest a moment before the sword severed her neck.

A shock of agony passed through Docada's body, and he felt himself reeling backwards. Somehow, he dropped his sword as he staggered; his concentration, his focus, even his fury seemed jarred away by the terrible energy that passed over him. He was only vaguely aware of the gleeful expressions and advancing fury of the Oblivion creatures, and he was only vaguely aware that he was stumbling toward the edge of the platform; at the moment, he could stop neither.

The earth fell away from Docada's feet, and he felt something hard and round impact with his body between his shoulder blades; and then he was only aware of falling, falling, falling. The spire of fire reached upwards, seeming to grow higher by the second -- but that, he realized, was because he was dropping further and further. But the air about him seemed to flicker with wisps of flame, and the tower appeared to tremble; this illusion he could not explain, and it annoyed him that he was about to land at the base of the tower and die unable to answer this last question.

Suddenly, a red haze swept his vision. "_I am dead!_" he thought. "_And what is this place? Is this death?_"

But, just as suddenly, it passed away, and he felt himself land surprisingly gently on some surface. He stared upwards in wonder at a dawn sky. Sitting, he turned about him in confusion. He was not dead, nor was he in Oblivion. He was back outside the walls of Kvatch -- and there on the ground beside him lay the strange stone that had sat in the midst of the spire of flame and shown him his reflection.

It was then that he heard voices -- human voices -- calling out, and saw people flocking to him.

"He shut the gate!" "The gate is gone!" "Hero of Kvatch!"

Staring in wonder at the faces that appeared around him, he suddenly felt the fatigue and horror of his ordeal catch up with him. "Help!" he croaked. "Help me!"

"Quickly!" someone called. "The Hero of Kvatch is wounded!"

A priestess broke through the crowd and knelt beside him. "Are you wounded, noble friend?"

Docada shook his head, trying to force words through his parched lips. "No..." he gasped. "But I must see..."

"Yes?" one of the onlookers asked. "What is wrong, our hero?"

"Quickly," Docada breathed. "I must have a hairdresser!"


	169. Chapter 169

When that malignant Vixen strikes,

Hide thee away, good Knight!

For Love's sweet kiss, given so tenderly

Is poison of the adder to your lips!

-- From the Lovelorn Poet's _A Thousand Broken Hearts, _Edition the First

Chapter One Hundred and Sixty-Nine

Having been released from prison, but robbed of all of his gold, a furious Edward stalked the streets of Skingrad. He was haggard and worn from his sleepless night of screaming, and he was weak from the exertion of struggling against his jailer's spells.

At present, he wasn't sure what he was going to do; he wanted to murder the insolent castle steward, as well as the blackguard jailer, but he felt ill-prepared to do either, whatever his fury directed.

Furthermore, he'd been warned to vacate the castle grounds and not return...and yet, if he was to leave this miserable little settlement, he had to fulfill the stupid commands of the bastard emperor, didn't he? He was expected to show up with troops -- and he'd sooner die than have a third failure to account for, particularly as there was no Baurus around to blame it on this time.

Pacing the streets in this state, he didn't even notice the people he passed. He was lost in unproductive reverie when a voice called him to the present. "Oh, my dear man! You look like death!"

Edward glanced up at this greeting, and stared at the speaker. She was a Dunmer, but the Imperial found that he forgave that shortcoming as she stared at him with her smoldering red eyes. She was an exceedingly beautiful woman -- not only for an elf, but even when compared to Imperials. Yet he was hardly impressed by her greeting. "Me?" he asked.

She nodded. "Are you alright?"

Surveying the comely figure before him, he thought for a moment. As unflattering as it was to be on the receiving end of pity, this gorgeous woman seemed to be genuinely concerned for him. Furthermore, her clothes and ample jewels bespoke prestige and wealth, so, if she was given to philanthropic endeavors, why should he hesitate to be the recipient of said sympathy – and all the charity that it would, hopefully, entail? After all, he was starving and weary, and had not money to buy a room or food. Who needed charity more than he? "I...I don't know," Edward answered in his feeblest tones. "I'm sure I'll be fine...it's just so cold, and I'm so tired..."

"Oh, you poor dear!" she exclaimed. "Cold? It's a beautiful morning. You must be very ill! Come -- come with me! I will see that you are taken care of!"

"No, no!" Edward protested in mock consternation. "I'm fine...and anyway, I have no money to pay for shelter."

"You unlucky fellow!" the Dunmer cried. "Don't worry about that! I can put you up at my place. And, I'm an alchemist...I can treat whatever ails you."

Edward shook his head feebly. "I could not impose."

"Please!" she pleaded. "I could not think of letting you go on by yourself. Really, you look like death!"

Uttering a few last protests, Edward allowed himself to be led away by the Dunmer. He savored the brush of her soft skin against his, and breathed in her scent with delight. Was it possible, he wondered, to fall in love so quickly? And with a Dunmer, at that? But she was no ordinary Dunmer, no barbarian like the others; she was a kind, sympathetic soul who had pitied him, who was taking him to her own home to tend him herself. And, gods, but she was beautiful!


	170. Chapter 170

Love's bittersweet song,

You will listen with your heart and with your soul sing along,

Think it makes you strong,

Until suddenly you see that you've got it all wrong.

-- From the Lovelorn Poet's _A Thousand Broken Hearts, _Edition the First

Chapter One Hundred and Seventy

Edward glanced about the spacious room that the Dunmer had led him to. It was a fine bedchamber, nicely furnished and expensively decorated. There was a large double bed on one end of the room, and on the other a looking glass overshadowing the dresser – and, though it was hardly flattering, he had to agree with the lady's observation that he looked half dead.

"Now," she was saying, "first things first...you need some rest, and a hot meal."

Edward nodded as feebly as he could muster while savoring the idea of food for his empty stomach.

"I'm Falanu. House Hlaalu." Then, with a smile, she added, "As if that matters here. But let me go and find you something warm and comfortable to change into."

He glanced down at his clothes, and realized sheepishly that they were filthy and covered with cobwebs and dirt from his cell, as well as all the dust of travel.

"I'm afraid I don't have anything exactly your size," Falanu said with a smile, "but I'm sure we'll find something to suit. And I'll draw a nice, hot bath for you. Or do you think you'll not be strong enough to bathe yet?"

Edward indicated that he was quite ready for a bath, and then watched her leave, admiring her as she went; the woman seemed perfect, from every angle. Thinking what luck it was that he had happened to run across such a gorgeous, exotic goddess, he waited eagerly for her return. At last she came, a tray of food in one hand and a pile of clothes in the other.

"Here you are," she said. "You looked famished, so you had better eat first. And, while you do that, I'll get your bath ready."

Edward didn't need to be told twice. He set to work devouring the food as the Dunmer readied a steaming bath for him. When he'd finished and his bath was ready, she showed him the robes she'd got for his use. There were two, one silken and the other plush, and each was a very large, wrap-around robe. The fact that they were of extraordinarily feminine designs only vaguely registered in the mind of the Imperial, who was awed by the workmanship and finery of the garments. She must be rich, indeed, he thought with joy to be able to afford – and spare – clothes of this magnificence.

"As I said," Falanu told him, "these are mine...but they should server your purposes while I get your clothes laundered."

Edward nodded. He had half a mind to suggest that he wasn't strong enough to bathe without her assistance, but the size of the meal he'd just consumed rather put the lie to such a claim. Instead, he thanked her.

"Alright then. Call me when you're out and dressed, and I'll take care of the bath. And then you need to get some sleep!"

He waited until she'd left, and then stripped off his dirty clothes. Easing into the steaming bath water with a sigh, he smiled. Finally, the gods were doing things right. He was in the house of a beautiful, rich woman who seemed concerned only with his comfort...he could see how things would progress from here as clearly as if he'd been shown a vision of the future.

At present, his benefactress felt sympathy and compassion for him; she would nurse his ailment – which he was determined would last a very long time indeed – herself, and grow more and more attached to him as she did so; they would stay like this for weeks, perhaps months, and get to know one another better; his charms would work their magic, and turn her pity into love. Their very closeness would give in her rise to a longing for him akin to that he'd known at the first sight of her. And soon – as soon as he could arrange it – she would be his.

He could see himself living out his days with her. She was an elf, after all, and so would not age like regular women; so she would still be young and tantalizing, even when he was old and stooped with years. And, if her gray skin and smoldering eyes weren't exotic enough, the idea of being old and married to a rich, young elven beauty surely was sufficient.


	171. Chapter 171

Love, that sweet sensation;

Finer than the finest wine,

Stronger than the strongest drink,

Love, that happiness supreme.

-- Excerpt from _The Lover's Song_

Chapter One Hundred and Seventy-One

Falanu Hlaalu stood, watching the sleeping Imperial. She watched the quiet way his chest rose and fell, and laughed into her palm at the occasional snort of disturbance that interrupted his otherwise restful slumber. She found her eyes drawn to the pallor of his body against the crimson robe he wore, and the peaceful expression sleep had given his troubled face.

There was something – she couldn't quite explain what – about him that she found incredibly attractive. He had seemed like a specter from the grave when she'd first seen him – so worn and haggard and troubled. He was still pale, no doubt from lack of proper nutrition and repose, as well as whatever cares weighed on his mind; but there was a gentle, untroubled air to him as he slept, an air reminiscent of the peace and freedom she'd seen in the expressions of the dead.

She smiled. Yes, she liked this Imperial. And she was fairly certain that he liked her, too. She'd caught the appraising look he'd given her when they first met, and noted the satisfied result of that appraisal. Likewise, she'd noticed the way his breath had caught when her skin had brushed his, and how he'd seemed to drink in her scent as she passed by him. She'd noticed the way his eyes lingered on her as she moved, and how he'd been reluctant to say goodbye earlier.

Normally, she avoided men like that; live men were trouble. But this one? She shook her head. Was it possible, she wondered, that love at first sight was more than just a myth? Was it possible that one could know in an instant that she'd found the person for her?

She sighed. She didn't know. "_Isn't life confusing?_" she thought. Things were so much simpler with the dead. No emotions, no thoughts of commitment or obligation, no wondering what someone else thought of you. But, then, there were ample disadvantages to a pursuit of the dead. The dead didn't make for good conversation partners any more than they enjoyed savoring your favorite wine or meal with you; you couldn't introduce a corpse to your friends and family any more than you could expect it to come to your aid in times of trouble. And then there was the issue of legality, as well. Not to mention that, once you found a good corpse, it only lasted for a short amount of time – no matter what spells and potions you applied to it.

Yes, she thought, it was definitely time for her to consider a relationship with a live man...and the Imperial, with his delicious combination of youthful looks and graveyard pallor, seemed the perfect candidate.

She smiled and slipped out of the room, closing the door gently behind her. "_Edward Hlaalu_," she thought. It was not the greatest, but she'd certainly heard worse. "_Hmm..._"


	172. Chapter 172

Be careful what you attribute to Fate,

For what seems gold may be ash,

And what seems ash may be gold;

And what was said to be borne of Fate,

May have been the product of Coincidence.

-- _On Attributing to the Deities the Events of Life and History_

Chapter One Hundred and Seventy-Two

Skingrad was abuzz with news of the siege of their sister city, Kvatch, and how a hero, not much more than a mere boy, had rushed into the gates in his night clothes, armed with nothing more than his fists, and laid waste to the Oblivion creatures before taking the sigil stone and so closing the gate. In doing so, this youngster had saved the town and all of its inhabitants.

News also came of Count Goldwine's death. He was murdered, it was said, in his own castle by the Daedra – the creatures from the hell-gates. If not for the Hero of Kvatch, as the town's savior was known, the inhabitants would surely have perished in the same manner.

Falanu, sitting on the edge of his bed, was just relating the news to Edward, who moaned in interest. Despite his unenthusiastic display, the Imperial could not wholly repress some curiosity. After all, Docada had been sent to Kvatch, and would surely have made it there by time the attack occurred. Was it possible that the filthy elf had been murdered by the demon spawn? The idea filled Edward with glee; but he was careful to moderate his behavior as befitting a dying man, as he was currently pretending to be. "How frightening," he groaned. "What if that were to happen here? And you here all alone, with no one to keep the hordes of Daedra at bay..."

"I'm sure someone would be brave enough to close the gate," Falanu answered.

He smiled at her wanly. "But being brave is not enough, when your limbs have no strength," he sighed.

"I didn't mean you!" she hushed him. "You're to rest, come Oblivion or high water!"

Edward smiled at her. "I will rest," he answered. "But I cannot promise that I would stay abed if my angel of mercy was imperiled!"

Clicking her tongue in a dismissive manner, she nonetheless colored at his remark. "Now you be quiet and get some rest," she told him. "I don't want you to worry about anything. You're perfectly safe here."

Edward sighed in a relieved way. "I don't know how it is...but I know you are right." She smiled as he stared into her red eyes, and he felt his heartbeat quicken. Gods, but there was no mistaking this feeling; he had at long last met the woman worthy of him.

"Anyway, before I leave, I have another healing potion for you," she told him. "The others seemed not to have much effect, but this one is much stronger; and I've added a few strains of other healing properties, to combat poisons and diseases."

Edward grimaced inwardly. In the last few days, she had filled him with so many healing potions in an attempt to cure him of an ailment that did not exist that he was ready to gag at the mere thought of them; but, sighing in a grateful manner, he declared, "I don't know what I would do without your kindness...I imagine I should have died already, alone and miserable in some distant corner of the city, unable to afford a healer after those ruffians robbed me."

Her brow creased with concern at this rendition of the fate he'd narrowly missed. "You mustn't think like that!" she chided. "We met for a reason, I'm sure! If it was the gods' will that you should die, we would never have bumped into each other – and we did, and I'm sure it was for a purpose!"

Deliberately allowing his hand to brush hers as he took the potion, and linger before he withdrew it, he smiled. "As am I."


	173. Chapter 173

Death and Destruction may be visited upon us,

While the gods sit indolent in their heavens;

But never fear, my brothers and sisters!

When our need is truly dire they will answer!

-- Prophesy prophesied by the Prophet prophesying in Anvil

Chapter One Hundred and Seventy-Three

Docada studied his reflection keenly. It had been two weeks since he'd narrowly avoided death; and still he was bound to the sick room, waiting to recover from his injuries. He had not allowed any to see him in that time, except one; and that one had been sworn to secrecy, to never reveal the terrible extent of the damage the vile Daedra had wrought on him.

For their part, the citizens of Kvatch respected their Hero's privacy. In their minds, they conjured up images of their brave savior lingering in agony brought on by wounds wrought of hellish weapons and devilish intent. They owed the boy who had rescued them all the solitude that he requested; and, though they were eager to bestow their thanks upon him, they diverted their energies to beseeching the gods for his full and speedy recovery.

And in this, the good people of Kvatch found themselves rewarded, for the Divines heard their pleas, and took mercy on them. So it was that, after the work of years of attentive grooming and loving care had been singed and turned brittle where it was not burnt clean away, Docada's hair grew back in perfect form in a mere two weeks. His hairdresser – the one individual who had been allowed to tend him in his invalid state – was amazed; he had never seen a recovery like this one, and he sang far and wide the praises of the boy-elf whom the gods themselves blessed and protected.

Finally, satisfied at his appearance, Docada was ready to cease hiding in shame and mortification; he was ready to meet the people of Kvatch, and to fulfill his duty to the Emperor.

So, on a bright, sunny afternoon, after a final touch up to his now restored hair, the Bosmer stepped out of his bower to the cheering of the assembled crowd. The air was heavy with a hundred voices, all shouting his praises.

"All hail the Hero of Kvatch!"

"Long live the savior of Kvatch!"

"The Deliverer of our city!"

"The gods have delivered him to us from the grave!"

Staring in awe at the assembled multitude, Docada felt a lump growing in his throat. Inadvertently though it had been, he had saved these people; and there, in such a display of gratitude and admiration, they waited for him, cheered him, called out his praises and their love for him.

"Good people of Kvatch!" he called, his thin voice wafting over the roar of the crowd. "You humble me! I am but a lowly servant of one a hundred, nay, a thousand, times greater than myself! I am merely the privileged agent and loyal slave of the greatest of all men."

The crowd began to demur this humbleness, but he interrupted. "No, no, my friends, hear me! I came to this city – this glorious, great city – on the orders of the one whom I serve, the Emperor!" Silence fell on the crowd. "Uriel Septim is dead, as are the three Princes; but there was born to our Emperor another son, the greatest of all his children. Martin is his name, and it is in Martin's service that I came here."

"Those of you who have been to Chorrol may know him, for he was an understudy to Friar Jauffre – who is himself the Grandmaster of the Blades – at Weynon Priory; the same assassins who murdered Uriel and the princes seek now to destroy Martin. It is for this reason that I am come here, to appeal to you for aid."

"Word has reached my master of an attack like this one, launched on Bruma – near where the Emperor is staying. I do not know why they attacked this city – perhaps to test their abilities – but I know their next attack will be swifter and more deadly."

"I cannot ask you, my friends, who have suffered so much already to come with me; you have homes of your own to rebuild, dead to bury, wounds to heal. But you must forgive me for remaining no longer, and returning with all haste to my Emperor; for though I was unable to complete my task and return with troops for his service, I will at least be able to offer my own humble abilities in his defense. I only thank the gods that they granted that I could live through the ordeals here, so that I may yet go on to serve my king. So I take my farewell of you, good friends, and I give you notice: look for the rise of the greatest Emperor to ever walk this world. Look for the coming of Martin Septim!"

The crowd erupted in cheers, and suddenly he found himself swarmed by admirers. Questions poured in from all sides, and with them pledges of fealty to himself and whatever great man he served.


	174. Chapter 174

Sweeter than honey,

With the strength of the sea,

Hot as flames,

With the sting of a scorpion.

-- From the Lovelorn Poet's _A Thousand Broken Hearts, _Edition the First

Chapter One Hundred and Seventy-Four

Edward smiled as Falanu walked into the room. "Do you know what today is?" he asked her.

"Turdas," she responded.

He smiled coyly at her. "True, but that's not what I meant."

"Oh?"

"It's the second week anniversary of our meeting."

She frowned in concentration, and then smiled. "I believe you're right."

"Of course I am," Edward crooned. "I could never forget the moment I met you." She blushed and turned away, and Edward smiled to himself. Today was the day he would make his move. After two weeks of choking down healing potions of every sort, he had been forced to abandon his charade of illness; the mere sight of any potion made him physically ill now, so he'd decided it was time to miraculously find his condition improved. That excuse gone, he had no reason to hang about Falanu's house any longer -- until now.

"Did I tell you why I came to this town?" he asked.

"On business?"

"Yes...it was only intended to last a few days." He paused, affecting a deep, thoughtful air. "But I don't know that I could ever leave now."

"Skingrad is a beautiful town," Falanu agreed.

"Yes, it is...but many towns are beautiful." He hesitated, waiting until she had turned to look at him, and his eyes had met hers. "Oh Falanu, you and I are not like other people...we do not need to wait a thousand years to assure ourselves of what we've known all along. Life is too precious, too fleeting, too glorious to postpone. So I will not..._cannot_ postpone it anymore."

He stepped over to her and fell to one knee, taking her hand in his. "Oh, my elven goddess...you, who has taken me from the brink of death and saved me, nursed me back to health with your own tender hands...you, who I owe my life, everything...will you not let me repay you in what way I can, by devoting this humble life to you, forevermore?" His eyes held hers, conveying all the passionate longing he felt for her, and more yet just for good measure. "Will you marry me, my queen?"

He saw tears forming in her eyes, and he felt his heart leap in his chest. She was going to accept! He had seen the longing way that she'd watched him when he'd first arrived, but lately, as his passion grew, he'd grown less sure of hers; his own feelings, he thought now, must have gotten in the way of his perception, and caused him to doubt when her heart was surely his.

"Oh Edward!" Falanu exclaimed, a tear running down her cheek.

The sound of her voice transformed him from supplicating to impassioned lover, and he found his legs had risen of their own volition, and his arms reached forward to wrap her in an embrace. At last, after all his misadventures and all the unworthy women who had played with his affections, he had found one who merited his love; and not only was she beautiful beyond compare, but she was rich enough to keep him comfortable for the rest of his days.

To his surprise, however, Falanu backed away from his embrace. "No," she shook her head, "you don't understand, Edward."

He stared wonderingly. "You're not...married?" Somehow, he hadn't thought to ask that before.

"No, it's not that."

"Then what, my beauty?"

Again, she pulled back as he advanced. "Edward, it's just...you are the nicest man I've ever met, and, if I was going to...that is, you'd be my first choice...but..."

"But?" Edward prompted, feeling very confused.

"I'm sorry, Edward...it's just...you're not my type."

He stared in consternation. Surely, surely this goddess of a woman could not be so base, so prejudiced, so bigoted, as to hold their different heritage against him – particularly if he, an Imperial, could get past his repugnance at the idea of marrying an elf! "You mean...because I'm not a Dunmer?" he asked, crestfallen.

"No, no, it has nothing to do with that...it's just that you're...breathing."

He stared at her, and blinked in confusion. "Well," he posited slowly, "I could...hold my breath?" It seemed strange, but everyone had their own fantasies; his had always run along the lines of beautiful, wanton Empresses who would pursue him to the ends of the earth for his love, but no one was the same after all.

She shook her head again. "No, no, you're not hearing what I'm saying, Edward," she told him with a sigh. "You see...when I first met you, you reminded me...of well, a corpse."

He blinked. "A corpse...?"

"Yes, exactly!"

"But what does that have..." He trailed off, an idea so repulsive and vile coming to mind that a ghastly pallor covered his cheeks. "You don't mean...that is..."

Falanu's eyes, however, lit up. "You see!" she exclaimed. "That's it! That's the Edward that I fell in love with!"

He stared at her with mortified confusion. He couldn't tell if she had meant what he thought, or if he was a blackguard of the worst sort for even supposing something so utterly abominable.

"If only we could think of a way to capture that look forever!" Then, her face lit up a second time. "Of course! I'm an alchemist; why haven't I thought of this before?! There's got to be some way, some potion, that would affect you – nothing serious of course, just a slight drain on your health. We could even counter it with a healing remedy, so that there would be no overall effect, except that you would look...so sexy!"

Edward stepped back. He felt totally lost at this point, but he was vaguely aware of sense of fear in the pit of his stomach. "What...are you talking about?"

"That look! That beautiful, dead look about you!" she answered. "If we can think of a way to maintain it...then we'd be perfect together!"

He blinked. "Dead...look? Why would you want me to look....dead?"

She stared at him. "Didn't you hear what I told you? I've never found living people attractive – until I met you! You looked so corpse-like, so sexy...but then you started look healthy, and rosy cheeked, and..." She broke off, shuddering.

"You mean..." Edward started, having great difficulty putting the thoughts to words, "that you're...attracted to corpses?"

She nodded. "Exactly!"

"And that...I reminded you of a corpse?"

She nodded again. "I'm so glad you understand, Edward! I should have known that you would...there was something about you, something that I saw the moment I met you..."

But Falanu never got to finish that sentence, for the Imperial, shrieking in a high, mortified way, pushed past her, and took off running.


	175. Chapter 175

Skingrad woman arrested, search initiated for missing body!

Our Skingrad correspondent writes to tell us that that town is all in an uproar today after the arrest of a local woman, an immigrant from Morrowind, Miss Falanu Hlaalu. Ever since Miss Hlaalu's arrival in County Skingrad, rumors have flourished of her hasty flight from the home of her birth and the circumstances surrounding this flight. To be precise, it has been said that Falanu Hlaalu fled after her alleged necrophilic tendencies were discovered.

However, up until recently, despite witnesses frequently reporting seeing her around the graveyard at all hours of the day and night with "an odd smile" on her face, she has had no run-ins with the law. This changed, though, when a young man, obviously ill, was seen to enter her home. After two weeks passed, and he was not seen again by anyone, the City Watch paid Miss Hlaalu a visit. When she denied having the stranger in her house, claiming he had left that very morning, she was taken into custody for further questioning.

Officers believe she has stashed the body somewhere, and are asking residents to keep an eye – and nose – out for it. Our correspondent will write the moment further developments in this grisly case come to light.

-- Black Horse Courier, Special News Bulletin

Chapter One Hundred and Seventy-Five

Edward tore out of Falanu Hlaalu's house and down the street, screaming all the way. Every thought he'd had of her, every fantasy he'd built up for the two of them, seemed now to come back to his mind as searing flashes of pain and humiliation. Every morsel of food she'd fed him, every potion she'd given him to drink, seemed now to weigh in his stomach like lead and fire. He felt used, defiled, humiliated.

He took little note as people stared, but only continued running. The very clothes he was wearing, which she had bought him when she'd seen how much he'd appreciated her loan of silken robes, seemed now a terrible proof of the humiliating deception done him. The fine satin that had once symbolized his love for a woman who could provide so much comfort and wealth for him now seared his skin. The silk and finery seemed to burn into his flesh and weigh down his heart.

Every silvery word he'd spoken to her now came back to haunt him; all of his finest praises, the most overblown and exaggerated expressions of his devotion, all came swarming back to him. He had been masterful in his pursuit of her, getting every line right, every expression; and, worse yet, he had meant at least some of what he'd said.

Rending the clothes he wore, and letting them fall to the ground behind him, Edward continued to screech to the heavens in an expression of his perfect anguish. He, Edward the Imperial, had been more sorely used in these two weeks than he had ever been in his entire life – and that was indeed a high standard to overcome.

It seemed clear to him now that women -- barbarians particularly, but the entire gender -- were unworthy of him; that they were deceptive, treacherous, dishonest, manipulative. Women were incapable of real love, real devotion; they only wanted what they could get from a man, to use him for their own ends. They could not see him for what he was, but merely as part of a sick obsession; they did not see him as a human being, but just a...corpse.

He shuddered, and let his wailing come to an end. Blind mortification had driven his steps thus far, but now Edward paused. He was outside the Chapel of Julianos, and he found his steps drawn to that place. "Why?!" he besought of the gods as he approached, "Why do you torment me so?!"

Something drove him to the doors, and something spurred him to enter; and a strange sight he doubtless made for the churchgoers that morning, too, as he stumbled in in naught but his underwear, his eyes wild with rage and tears, and his cheeks puffy from crying.

He stared at the statues of the Divines, each sitting aloft in their own niche above an altar engraved with their name. "Ye gods!" he declared, falling to his bare knees. "Why do you torment me? What have I done? Have I not always lived in meekness and goodness, doing no hurt to my fellow man? Why, then, do you continue in your cruelty? Why do you keep sending these vile barbarian women to prey on my trusting nature, to manipulate my goodness, to break my pure heart?"

He ignored the aghast stares of the pious churchgoers, and stared into the stony faces of the gods. "Have I not proved myself worthy?" he demanded, his tears having turned to hot fury. "Have I not shown my mettle? Then why do you deceive me? Why do you toy with me? Why do you send me these treacherous mortals?! Where is someone worthy of me, where are the goddesses who would deserve me?! Why have you not sent me them yet?!"

Here, furiously surveying the carved faces of the Divines, he paused meditatively. His face wrinkled in distaste as he beheld the goddesses before him. "Ugh...but for pity's sakes, my goddesses had better be better looking than you hideous lot!"

A faint rumble of thunder overhead roused Edward from his reverie, and he saw now that all eyes were on him. His rage vented, he suddenly felt very self-conscious. Rising quickly, his nose in the air, he sniffed, "Mind your own noses, busy bodies!"

With this, he turned his bare back on them, and marched out the door on his bare feet.


	176. Chapter 176

Some men are born fools,

But some born fools grow to be wise men,

But some are beyond mortal help,

Likewise immortal, for that matter.

-- _Reflections on Stupid People, _author unknown

Chapter One Hundred and Seventy-Six

After leaving the temple, Edward had wandered the streets of Skingrad for several hours. The thunder overhead, which had sprung up at precisely the moment that Edward was disparaging the appearance of the goddesses, seemed now to have died away. "_Temperamental, hideous old crones_," the Imperial thought. "_Let's face it, it's not exactly like they can do nothing about the way they look...they're gods, for goodness' sake! Surely they can use some of their power to make themselves look a little less repulsive..._"

So, pondering these less than monumental thoughts, the scantily clad Imperial roamed the streets. Occasionally, someone would stop and hand him a coin, saying something along the lines of, "Oh, you poor thing -- here you are," or "Have a coin, beggar." These thoughts were generally followed up with, "Now, for heaven's sakes, get some clothes on that skinny body!"

Though he'd not refused their generosity, Edward nonetheless cursed the givers under his breath. Anyone insolent enough to suppose that he, Edward the Imperial, was a beggar deserved every curse imaginable, he felt; and, if there was any power to malignant thoughts as some supposed, he was sure they would suffer greatly, for he sent ample malignancy their way.

Finally, having only a half dozen coins to his name, Edward decided to seek out shelter. This proved a very difficult task, however, as no one was willing to rent to a naked man with barely a handful of coins who claimed to know the Emperor.

At last, having been thrown out of the last inn in town, Edward screamed a furious barrage of profanity at the sky. How dare these filthy, unworthy barbarians treat him with so much disdain?! If he ever made it back to Martin, he would see that this disgusting town was razed to the ground, and the head of every townsman adorned one of Jauffre's pikes!

"You looking for shelter?" a haggard voice asked.

Edward's eyes flashed with annoyance as he glanced at the speaker. "Of course I am, you stupid beggar!"

The old woman looked affronted at this attack, and sniffed, "Well, nevermind then...you obviously don't need my help."

"Help?" Edward snarled. "You barely look like you can keep the skin on your bones, you old hag!"

"At least I can keep the clothes on my back," she retorted.

Edward blinked at this reproof. The beggar _was_ thin, but, then, she did have a point...she hadn't had to discard her only clothes to rid herself of the pollution of a necrophile, had she? "You mean," he asked hesitantly, "you really can help? You know of somewhere that I can sleep?"

"Of course I do," she answered.

"Good!" he returned, his tone suddenly more agreeable. "Where would that be, now, dear?"

"Not so fast, my high and mighty gentleman," she snorted. "Information like that is valuable, and I don't intend to part with it – at least to the likes of you – unless I'm paid, and paid handsome."

Edward felt his blood boiling, and he glared at her. "You stupid old crone!" he hissed. "Look at me! I don't even own a set of clothes! How in Oblivion am I supposed to pay you?!"

"Well," she sniffed, "I saw a handful of coins there..."

Edward gaped at her. "You...my coins? But...it's all I have to my name!"

She shrugged. "Well then, see what shelter it buys you." This said, she turned her back on him and began meandering away.

"Wait!" the Imperial called after her. "Here...if you'd rob a dying man, take them."

"Don't mind if I do," the beggar declared, snatching the coins out of Edward's outstretched hand.

He glared at her for taking the money; he had hoped that his sympathy routine would do the trick. "Now show me to shelter, hag!"

She surveyed him with a dismissive air, and declared, "You know...I don't think that was enough coin for that information."

"But I have no more!"

"And that, my boy, is your problem," the beggar cackled.

Edward glared daggers at her. "Listen, crone, you had better take me there at once, or you'll repent the day that your hideous old carcass was born!"

She stared at him, an eyebrow raised. "Are you threatening me?" she asked with a dismissive snort. "That's against the law, you know."

"It's not a threat," he growled. "You wouldn't be the first old bag who tried to rob me that I've killed!" He said this with full sincerity, thinking of his encounter – accidental though it had been – with Simplicia in the Imperial City, and was glad to see a flicker of something like fear cross her face "As it is, you've been standing here, gawking at my stately physique," he continued, adding, as an appalled expression crossed the old woman's face, "And don't pretend you haven't, either. I've seen your lustful eyes looking me over. You'd pay a lot more than the few coins you stole from me to get a look at a body like this, I'll reckon!"

The old beggar had gone from recoiling in horror to doubling over with laughter.


	177. Chapter 177

Sent to the Beggar's Court,

There to find a new life

Out of sight and smell

Exiled to die in nothingness.

-- Memoirs of a Beggar in The Beggar's Court

Chapter One Hundred and Seventy-Seven

Edward followed the old woman in silence. After her laughing fit had melted into a wheezing-choking-laughing fit, and then, finally, subsided, she'd consented to show him the way to the beggar's quarters of the city. "I haven't laughed so hard in a decade," she'd told Edward. "And I suppose that's worth something...probably more than you're getting out of the bargain, anyway." This had been said with a malicious grin; and then she'd set out in the direction of the Beggar's Court, as it was called.

Her words proved prophetic, for the miserable shanty town that she led him to was hardly worthy of the name 'shelter'. Indeed, it was little more than a ramshackle collection of tents, shacks, sleeping rolls and feeble wind barriers. The smell of filth and illness permeated the air, and Edward cringed as his bare feet traversed the filthy walkways down which the beggar took him.

There was a fire in the center of the 'Court', and old and young alike gathered round this. Some cooked meat of a suspect nature, and others warmed themselves and their little ones.

Half a dozen sets of eyes turned to Edward and his guide as they approached, and the Imperial saw with disdain the listlessness of poverty, fatigue, malnourishment and disease in those expressions. In some eyes, however, there was an additional distance, a glazed, faraway look; this the Imperial recognized as the telltale sign of Skooma addiction. He fought to keep his lip from curling in disgust at these lowlifes, these drug addicts, these poor people...

"This is Edward," the old woman declared as they drew near. "Bit of a nutter, he is, but one without a cent to his name." She snickered as she said this, but added, "So here he is."

A few nodded unenthusiastic greetings, and one invited Edward to have a seat at the fire. His nose held at a significantly heavenward angle, the Imperial did as he was bade.

"You must be new to these parts," one glassy-expressioned middle aged man declared. "A stranger to the town, eh?"

Edward sniffed his assent, thinking to himself, "_Disgusting Skooma addict...how dare you talk to me?_"

"I was new here too, once. But that was a long time ago. I came here from Bravil. It's a different kind of town, Bravil. Not like this one. Not so big...not so fine." He sighed sadly.

Edward scoffed at the other man. "I didn't know beggars moved," he said. "I suppose you came here thinking people would have more to give you than in the sticks?"

The man turned glassy eyes toward Edward. "Huh? Oh, no, I wasn't a beggar then. No, not then. I was a tradesman, a blacksmith by profession. That's right, a blacksmith. Saved up enough money to move up here, and I got a little shop by the outer gate. Just a little place, mind, but..." He sighed again, this time in a wistful manner.

The Imperial stared at him disdainfully. "Then how did you end up a beggar? Preferred leeching off the hard work of others to working yourself, eh?"

The beggar seemed not to notice the disgust in his voice, for he shook his head, staring absently into the fire. "No, no, nothing like that...no, it was...well, you know, the stuff. Never had it before, but then...well, a friend of mine introduced me...said it was harmless..." He shrugged. "You don't stop, then...you can't. You lose sight of everything else...you don't pay your bills, you don't care about food...It calls you...even when you run away. I tried that...refused to touch it for weeks...I couldn't eat...couldn't sleep...couldn't drink anything...I almost died...they brought me to the chapel, and the priests healed me all up." He sighed. "And as soon as I was well, I had to have it again." Edward's lip curled in disgust as he stared down his nose at the other man. Suddenly, though, the beggar's mournful disposition changed, and, smiling, he turned to the Imperial. "And what of you? How did you end up here?"

Sniffing in a superior manner, Edward nonetheless deigned to speak to the Skooma addict, so long as he was discussing his favorite topic. "Well," he began, "_I_ am here only temporarily."

The beggar nodded. "That's what I thought, too. It'll just be a while, and you'll be back on your feet. That's what you think at first."

Edward glared at the other man. "I mean it, you stupid beggar! I came down here on business, and the worthless guards arrested me."

"Ohhhh...." the man's eyes lit up. "That sort of business, eh? So you're a runner?"

"A runner?" Edward asked, bewildered. Then, judging by the man's eager expression, he grimaced. "No, of course not! I'm not into Skooma – as a junkie or a pusher!"

"Oh..." the beggar sighed, seeming quite dejected at this revelation.

Edward hissed in disgust. It was going to be a long night...a very long night indeed.


	178. Chapter 178

Blessed Inspiration, thou capricious vixen,

Thou hast deserted me for so long

From me thou hast gone, until I need thee most

And now in all thy glory, returned!

-- Ode to Inspiration, author unkown

One Hundred and Seventy-Eight

Edward spent a restless night in the Beggar's Court, and was in an especially foul mood by time he rose the next morning. Marching toward the castle at first light, he found to his fury that he was barred entrance. Mercator Hosidus, it seemed, had given directions that he was not to be given admittance; and even had that not been the case, the guards had told him, they would have refused to admit him anyway, as his lack of clothes broke the palace dress code.

So, shaking with fury, Edward thought it best to vacate the premises before he engaged in a fight that he could not possibly win, naked and unarmed as he was, against these heavily armored brutes.

His stomach growled fearfully, and he decided he should return once more to the Beggar's Court to see if there was any food to be had there; then he would retrieve his horse and be on his way.

The beggars seemed genuinely pleased to see him return. The Skooma addict, Shelza, in particular, seemed glad. "I thought you had left," he told Edward. "Glad to see you decided to stick around. I know it's not much, but this place, it's our home. And if we don't stick together, well, where does that get us, eh? And we're always glad to welcome a new face. Yes, yes we are! Aren't we Su'uza?" He paused to turn about in a searching way for a fellow beggar, but, seeing that the object of his quest was not there, he turned back to Edward. "Nevermind her, we are! Indeed we are. Sad truth is, we don't get too many new faces around here. Oh, no...no, no...people don't want to come here if they can help it, and if they can't, they get out as soon as they can. So it's always nice to meet new people. Isn't that right, Su'uza?" He turned again, and then shook his head with a laugh. "That's right, she's not there."

Edward stared in disgust and wonder at the man, imagining that he was either suffering withdrawal symptoms, or else had gotten his hands on a quick fix since they'd last spoken. "Look here," the Imperial said curtly, "I haven't time for this and the problems of drug addicts and beggars. I have to figure out what I'm going to tell that bastard Emperor when I come back without a single soldier!"

"Emperor?" Shelza asked, his eyes lighting up. "You mean...you know the Emperor?"

"Of course!" Edward exclaimed. "He used to be my servant."

"Ohhh, you're just pulling old Shelza's leg," the beggar sighed, a disappointed expression crossing his face. "And that's right, old Uriel is dead. We haven't got an Emperor. Oh dear, what are we going to do without an Emperor? The Empire will fall to ruin – ruin!"

Edward glared at his companion. "You stupid junkie," he snapped, "I'm not pulling your leg...gods know, I wouldn't touch the filthy thing – you smell like you haven't bathed in years! And I'm not talking about that old fool, Uriel; I'm talking about his young fool bastard son, Martin."

Shelza pondered these words for a few moments as Edward attempted to ignore his existence; the beggar's smell made that difficult, however. "So then...you really do know the Emperor? And we have an Emperor?" the middle-aged man asked at last.

"Of course! Didn't I just say that?"

"Then...what did you say you came here for? Troops, was it?"

Edward nodded absently. "Yes...the fool got himself in a bind with the Mythic Dawn, and he wants me to bring soldiers to rescue him...but that fool Mercator Hosidus won't let me talk to the Count, and now I'm going to have to go back empty-handed...again." Edward sighed deeply. "It's just so hard being a hero...you try and you try, and the cosmos thwarts you at every turn."

"Well, forget old Hosidus," the beggar suggested. "Why not ask the people of Skingrad? I'm sure they'd be happy to go!"

Edward snorted. "What sort of an idiot would abandon a perfectly safe home to flock to the mountains in order to risk his neck all for a worthless bastard king..." Suddenly, he stopped, and a light of inspiration came into his eyes. "Shelza, you're a genius!" he exclaimed.

"I...am?" the beggar asked.

"Yes! Yes, you've hit upon a perfect idea! Who, after all, would not be proud to serve his King? Who would not give up anything, everything, to join the banner of the true Emperor?"

Shelza frowned. "But I thought you said only an idiot..."

"No, no, good Shelza!" Edward protested, shaking his head. "I was saying what sort of idiot would _not_. You see, it is...it is...well, destiny!"

"Is it?"

"Yes, it is! How many times in a man's life does he get the chance to die for his Emperor?!"

The beggar frowned. "I suppose only once."

"If he's lucky!" Edward agreed. "Think of the honor, the privilege, the distinction! Indeed, the lowest man may count himself the greatest, the most contemptible hold his head higher than the noblest, if he answers the call of his Emperor when in dire need, as Martin is this day!" Shelza's eyes were positively gleaming now, and so the Imperial rushed on. "I will go now, my friend, and ask the noble townspeople, who have lived in privilege and peace all their lives, if they will not come, and win for themselves a place in history unparalleled by any other; secure for themselves the gratitude of an Emperor, fame and even fortune!"

"Hold on!" Shelza interrupted, seizing Edward's arm as he turned away.

"Hold? But I must go, Shelza! I must go, and bring these people the opportunity of a thousand lifetimes!"

"Wait, my friend!" the beggar protested. "As you have said, they already live in comfort and privilege."

"Yes," Edward agreed. "And now they will have a chance to multiply it a thousandfold, to add immortality to their great names!"

"But why them? Would you not share this fortune with those who have none?" the beggar asked, his eyes blazing with zeal. "Look around you, Edward my friend. These people – we – who have nothing; surely, if there is such a chance to be had, we deserve it more than them?"

Edward pursed his lips in a thoughtful way, as if he was considering these words. "I can see your point, Shelza...but I must bring back only the most devoted of mind and spirit..."

Shaking his head, the beggar insisted, "You will find no better than us! Give us this chance to prove ourselves, to redeem ourselves!" Edward creased his brow and hemmed and hawed for a few moments. "Please, my friend," the other man pleaded. "Will you not give us this one chance?"


	179. Chapter 179

Beggar's Crusade, Falanu Hlaalu released!

Following up on our last report, we have a shocking turn of events to relate. After Miss Hlaalu's incarceration (reported in the last edition of the Courier), the man long believed to be dead – a youngish looking fellow, unvaryingly described as "thin", "baby-faced" and "mouse like" – was spotted at the County Hall attempting to secure an interview with Count Hassildor. Unfortunately, his name was not remembered by the castle staff. He was later seen at the Beggar's Court, and just today leading a host of beggars and Skooma addicts from that place, apparently bent on a crusade of some sort. Unfortunately, our correspondent was unable to catch up to the ragtag army before they vacated the city. Mercator Hosidus was quoted as saying that he looks "forward to cleaning those repulsive slums up, and using the land to improve our fair city."

Meanwhile, when this strange king of the beggars surfaced to corroborate Miss Hlaalu's testimony, she was, of course, immediately released from her confinement in the Skinrad dungeons. It was then that she and Grigori – that pale, reclusive keeper of the dungeon – revealed that, during their short acquaintance, they had secretly fallen in love and been married.

While hardly on the same scale as the upheaval in Kvatch, Skingrad has certainly seen its share of oddities and excitement these last few days! We only hope these peculiarities are not the harbingers of some great calamity.

-- Black Horse Courier, Special News Bulletin

One Hundred and Seventy-Nine

Marching – or, rather, riding – at the head of his army of Skingrad's Skooma addicts and beggars – not to mention the homeless and terminally ill – Edward smiled to himself. The stupid Emperor wouldn't be able to say that he hadn't done as he'd been directed now; and, even if those he'd brought were nothing more than a worthless, ragtag band of lowlifes, they were better than showing up empty-handed.

For all his good humor, however, the trip back to Cloud Ruler Temple would prove a long and tedious one. His army, consisting of so many ill and elderly, not to mention those suffering from Skooma-deprivation induced withdrawals, traveled at an excruciatingly slow pace, taking days to travel distances that he and Docada had traveled in hours.

So it was that, days later than he would have expected, Edward and his unimpressive army appeared at Cloud Ruler Temple. He had been afraid that several of the older and ailing recruits wouldn't last the trip, but, to his relief, they all made it to the fortress alive; he couldn't imagine the difficulties the death of one of his ragtag soldiers would have entailed. Not only would his fellows, who knew him from Skingrad, likely want to bury him, but then people might have started whining, or getting discouraged, or engaging in some other tedious and annoying reaction to the death of a worthless human being.

Instead, though several looked at Death's door, all arrived alive. The gates opened, and Edward, his head high, led his band inside; to his annoyance, the Blades greeted him with laughter.

"Nicely done, Edward!" one called out.

"Where'd you dig these people up?" another asked.

"But the Emperor will never believe it," a third declared pessimistically.

Edward glared disdainfully at the soldiers, and marched past them with his nose in the air. Pushing the doors of the great hall opened, he stepped inside, his troop of haggard soldiers in tow. Drawing himself up tall, he marched over to his Emperor.

Martin stared at his friend and the ragtag band that accompanied him.

Edward, taking no note of the Emperor's expression, declared loudly, "My liege! I bring you aid from Skingrad – these brave men and women, who come to fight for you!"

Martin stared at Edward in surprise. "You're...surely not...." he started.

It was at that moment, however, that one of the beggars, a frail old man, collapsed to the ground in a heap. Glancing behind him at the noise of this collapse, Edward felt his cheeks flush red. He had no doubt that the old man was dead – he had been one of the ones he'd feared for on the trip up – but he wondered with rage how the old fool dared to croak at such an inopportune moment. Couldn't the worthless lout have at least waited until _after_ the troops were presented? Now, not only had Edward brought one less warm body to the Emperor's aid, but he'd actually brought a cold one.

"Oh dear," Martin said, rousing Edward from his thoughts as he brushed past him toward the collapsed old man. "He's not...?" The question did not need to be asked, however, for the man's friends had already rushed to his aid; and, before the Emperor reached him, they confirmed that he was, indeed, dead. "Dead as a doornail," one indicated. "A very dead doornail."


	180. Chapter 180

Justice knows no boundaries,

And will recompense evils ever and again;

For she will not be fettered,

Nor her righteous wrath against evildoers subdued.

-- Tribute to Justice, author unknown

One Hundred and Eighty

Martin had been less than impressed with Edward's army, and, despite his tactful manner of expressing himself, had made the fact abundantly clear. So it was that the chastised Imperial sulked in his room, wondering if it was indeed too late to join the Mythic Dawn after all. Surely, he could opt out of paradise, could he not? For the bastard Emperor to dare – dare! – show anything less than gratitude for his efforts was an affront of the worst sort, and one that surely merited extraordinary retribution. Short of rejoining the Mythic Dawn, however, there seemed little he could do; and he doubted very much that even a god as repulsive as the Marooned Dragon – who, he noted, if his statue in the Mythic Dawn hideout had been any indication, was not a Dragon at all – would not be so desperate for followers that he would again accept someone with such inconsistent loyalties as his had proven to be.

At that moment, a loud shout of acclamation roused Edward from his glowering reverie. One of the Blades outside had called out something, but the cry was quickly repeated by another. "Open the gates for Docada!"

Edward felt a mixture of joy and further sorrow sweep him. He was saddened by the fact that Docada had, unfortunately, not been one of the killed at Kvatch. Joy swept him, however, at the fact that his own failures were soon to be supplanted by the failures of the despicable elf, who, after the attack, surely could not have even brought back a band of the inferior sort that Edward had summoned.

A malicious smile illuminating his features in a most predatory manner, the Imperial sauntered out of his chambers to greet the elf.

To his eternal mortification, however, he was presented with the sound of a hundred armored, tramping feet, and the sight of a magnificent band of well-armored warriors. In the lead of these soldiers walked the pallid elf, his complexion contrasting starkly with the fresh yellow of his twisted hair.

Edward felt his mouth gape. These facts were so overwhelming in nature that he had hardly time to take in the sight of the half a dozen or so civilians accompanying the Bosmer, all dressed in common attire and all sporting hairdos of similarly repulsive nature and hideous colors. Somewhere, though, in the back of his consciousness, he noted this, and it was but one more mortifying detail in a grotesque collage of woe.

Fixed in place and staring open mouthed as though he was in a trance, Edward watched the elf approach the hall; and he saw Martin, no doubt summoned by the noise as he had been, come out to greet him.

"Docada!" the Emperor greeted. Then, his eyes surveying the band of warriors, an expression of surprise crossed the other man's face. "These are your warriors?"

The elf fell to one knee in deference, and his followers did likewise. "My liege, I humbly beg to offer the assistance of these brave men, who, like myself, have sworn loyalty to you forevermore."

Martin positively beamed as he surveyed the crowd. "Thank you, my noble citizens! Your loyalty is appreciated, and will be remembered. Please, rise!" Then, after the elf had risen to his feet, Martin clasped him on the shoulders, declaring, "Well done, Docada! Very well done!"

"My liege," one of the Bosmer's civilian companions addressed the Emperor, "may I speak?"

"Of course, friend," Martin nodded, surveying the Dunmer with a cordial eye that nonetheless focused on his unorthodox, twisted poof of hair with a touch of surprise.

"Docada has told you only one fraction of what he has done for you, my liege – and what he has done for Kvatch!"

"Oh?"

The Bosmer flushed, and he spoke quietly, "For heaven's sakes, none of that, Darvyl!"

But the dark elf hurried on. "My lord, on the night that your servant arrived in Kvatch, our city was attacked. Gates from Oblivion itself appeared out of nowhere, and Daedra and other hell-creatures poured in. A siege engine of a most diabolical nature took down the walls of our city, and our citizens were being massacred in the streets. That is when our hero, the Savior of Kvatch, entered the Oblivion Gate – unarmed, my lord! And, fighting through the hordes of Daedra, he closed the gate, and banished the hellish creatures once more to Oblivion – and so saved us all, that we might come to serve you, my liege!"

Martin stared in astonishment. "Are you saying that...Docada...?"

Darvyl nodded. "I am, my lord! Ask Volkus or Teop if you would have confirmation; it was we who met our Master first, and – in our folly – realized not that he was your emissary. Now we see the error of our ways, and we follow him, as he follows you, that we may immortalize his deeds and words in song so that all may remember the greatness of the Hero of Kvatch, Docada, and his service to the Greatest Emperor of all time, Martin."

Martin cleared his throat. "Yes, I see..." Turning to Docada, he demanded, "Is this true, Docada? And why did you say nothing of it beforehand."

"It is true, my liege, but I did not speak of it because...because I am but your servant, and the singer of your praises; it is not for me to sing of my feats, for mine pale in comparison to yours, and are done only in your service and honor."

Edward felt his knees giving out underneath him, and he cursed the gods a thousandfold. It was not bad enough that they chose to spare Docada's life; not bad enough that they chose to return the elf a hero right after his own humiliation; not even bad enough that they would grant that the cowardly Bosmer wound up the Hero of Kvatch; not bad enough that he continued in his sickening minstrel pursuit...but now...now he had followers of his own, those revolting cretins who styled their hair in the same stupid manner as the elf, and dyed it in hideous shades of blue and green and red.


	181. Chapter 181

1 glob of troll fat

4 cinnabar polypore caps (red or yellow)

4 large potatoes, cubed

1 onion

1 clove of garlic

1 Daedra heart

Water hyacinth nectar

Marinate Daedra heart in hyacinth nectar overnight.

In large skillet, sauté mushrooms and onion in troll fat. Add potatoes and garlic, cook until potatoes are tender.

Grill Daedra heart over an open fire until outside is slightly crispy (inside will still be very moist). Toss heart with potato mixture, and serve immediately.

Serves 4

-- Popular dish at Imperial City restaurant "Taste of Oblivion," following the Oblivion crisis

Chapter One Hundred and Eighty-One

Grandmaster Jauffre returned to Cloud Ruler Temple with a sense of triumph about him. He had been to Bruma, and had captured another Mythic Dawn spy; he had the villain's head in his bag to prove the fact.

He noted with only the mildest annoyance that one of the Emperor's envoys must have returned, for there were new soldiers arrived at the fortress. "_Ah well, let the boy play his games,_" he thought. "_Emperors tend to like to meddle every once in a while._"

He was in fact just readying to see to the newly acquired head when he was summoned to Martin. Giving the head to the Blade who bore the message, along with specific instructions as to where it was to be placed, Jauffre walked with a light step toward the hall.

Bowing as he entered, he asked, "Your majesty summoned me?"

"Yes, Jauffre," Martin nodded. "I've been thinking of having a little celebratory dinner – you might have noticed that some of our envoys have returned? Anyway, I was wondering if you-"

"Say no more, my lord!" Jauffre declared, his eyes alight with pleasure. He had had a hankering for cooking lately, and this would be the perfect outlet. "Just leave it all to Jauffre."

Martin nodded, a faint smile toying with the corners of his mouth. "I remembered you liked to cook," he commented.

"Quite right, my lord," the Blade nodded. "Now, when do you want this dinner? Tonight, I suppose?"

Martin blinked. "Well, don't you need more time...?"

Jauffre shook his head. "I can be ready whenever you need me to be ready, my liege."

"Oh, I see. Well, then, tonight is fine." He paused. "But, are you sure? I wanted to include everyone – all the Blades, I mean, and the new troops. And there's about fifty of them."

The Grandmaster nodded again. "Quite sure, my lord. Dinner is not for another five hours – that gives me plenty of time."

"Oh...well, very good then."

Taking his leave, Jauffre headed for the kitchens with a smile. Today was shaping up to be a very good day indeed. He'd already dispatched of an enemy of the Empire, and now he was about to launch into a full-force cooking spree. "_A good day indeed!_"

At that moment, rounding a corner, he almost ran headlong into Edward. "Ahhh, it's you!" he greeted the pallid Imperial. "Back from Skingrad at last, eh?"

Edward nodded shakily. "I...uhh...yes?"

Jauffre was in too good a humor to be annoyed by the other man's wishy-washiness. Indeed, the fact that the nervous Imperial was just returned, and so too were the new troops, formed the – entirely wrong – conclusion in Jauffre's mind that Edward had, at last, completed a task successfully. This pleased him, and so he was inclined to think of the other man with a shade less contempt. "Come on then," he declared, delivering a hardy slap to Edward's shoulder – and almost sending him reeling in the process. "The Emperor wants us to cook up a feast."

"He...does?"

"That's right. Come on. You'll be my assistant." It made no nevermind to Jauffre that the feast was likely in Edward's honor; as far as he figured it, a man wasn't a man unless he could cook up enough to feed a barracks, and in such a way as befit a king. If the Imperial was truly to deserve the respect the Emperor was showing him, there was no time like the present to start earning it.

"I...ummm...but I was going to..." Edward started, squirming in a most uncomfortable manner.

Jauffre frowned at him. "Yes?"

"Well I had planned..."

"Are you doing anything for the Emperor?"

"Umm...no?"

"Good. Then you will help me."

He saw Edward gulp, and heard the fear in his voice as he replied, "Ummm...yes sir."

Jauffre nodded, his smile returning. Yes, today was indeed shaping up to be a good day.


	182. Chapter 182

Meat from one large, plump rat, ground  
Wedge of cheese, cut into thin slices  
Onion slices  
Loaf of bread, cut into ½ inch slices

Knead rat meat until it clumps together. Form into large round balls. Press these balls flat, to about 1-inch thickness. Grill over open fire. Turn when bottom is cooked, and top cooked side with a slice of cheese. Remove from heat when both sides have been cooked.  
Place burger on slice of bread, top with slices of onion and another slice of bread. Eat.

-- "Rat Burgers," from _The Accomplished Chef's Cookery _

Chapter One Hundred and Eighty-Two

Edward had followed Jauffre with trepidation to the kitchens. This was a most unexpected turn of events, and he half expected that the monk was luring him to the kitchens in order to murder him and then claim there had been a messy cooking accident. What other reason could there be, after all, for the Grandmaster to plan to cook up a feast – and for him to be in such a fine humor after the much hated elf had met with approbation from the Emperor?

To his surprise, however, the monk immediately set about dragging out ingredients and readying instruments of cooking; furthermore, he was humming in a pleased manner as he did all of this. "Now then, Edward my boy," Jauffre addressed him, "the Emperor told me to prepare a feast for all of us plus fifty extra, but I think we had better be on the safe side."

"Oh?"

"Yes...I think we should add another fifty places."

Edward's eyebrows rose. "Another...fifty?"

"That's right," Jauffre nodded. "You never know what could happen...people might have larger appetites than we expect, or someone might drop in for a visit."

Edward's eyebrows reached a point on his forehead. "In the middle of the Jerall Mountains?" he couldn't help but ask with a scoff. "At a secret fortress? I'd be surprised if anyone 'dropped in', much less _fifty_ anyone's..."

Jauffre paused from his busy activity to glance up at Edward with eyes that bespoke the grave. "What?"

The nervous Imperial shook his head quickly. "Nothing. I said that's a good idea."

"Good. Now, I need you to go out to the animal pens, and see how many pigs we have left. And what we've got for poultry. Not enough time to send a hunting party now, so we'll have to make due with whatever's out there."

Edward sighed, but did as he was bade – and took as long about it as possible. He counted two pigs, a turkey, half a dozen chickens, and two dozen ducks.

Recounting these figures, Edward awaited his orders.

"Better butcher the pigs, the chickens and the turkey," Jauffre commanded.

Edward stared at the monk, an eyebrow raised. This was hardly the cooking mania that he had witnessed in the Grandmaster beforehand. "Why not the ducks?"

Jauffre's head flew up at this question, and he turned glaring eyes toward Edward, demanding, "What did you say?"

"I...uhmm...asked why not butcher the ducks?" Edward asked, rather than answered.

Jauffre's jaw clenched visibly, and his cheeks turned very red. "The ducks...why?!"

"Because...well, are you sure that will be enough?"

The Grandmaster seemed to turn purple at this question. "Enough? Why of course...how much do you think these people eat, anyway?"

Edward frowned. He was too confused and annoyed to be frightened, although Jauffre's expression would have silenced a wiser man. "You just said you wanted to cook up enough for fifty more people, and now you want to feed them scraps?"

Jauffre's entire being seemed to grow red and purple. "Are you saying...that you think we should kill the ducks?"

"Obviously," Edward sighed, highly annoyed. "We're supposed to be feeding an army here, not a few paltry soldiers."

Jauffre's eyes shot fire at the Imperial. "You mean...you want to murder the ducks?"

Edward stared in astonishment. "Murder?" He hissed in disgust; this, from a man who routinely carried severed components of human and animal bodies about his person? This from a man whose idea of yard décor was the decaying remains of his fellow creatures? "I thought we were going to cook up a feast for the stupid Emperor – that is, the dear Emperor?"

Jauffre sighed deeply. "You're right," he said, his voice taking on a note of despair. "We...the Emperor commanded it, so we must do it, no matter how terrible, how vile, how repulsive to the very fabric of our humanity. We must kill the ducks."

Edward stared in annoyed disgust. He allowed Jauffre to sink deeper into his melancholy state for a few minutes, but then, with a hiss of disgust, he demanded, "Well, are you going to do it, or stand around thinking about doing it?"

Jauffre turned horror-filled eyes to Edward. "What do you think I am?" he hissed in a tone of astonished mortification. "A barbarian?"

For his own part, the foolhardy Imperial was well past the point of being afraid. He was thoroughly annoyed by all this delay and tomfoolery. "Look, you damned oaf," he snapped, "enough with the games...go kill the ducks already!"

Jauffre's face turned white. "I see the necessity of obeying the Emperor's commands, but I'd sooner be thrown from the heights of the Jerall mountains themselves than commit such an act of barbarous excess! The ducks must be killed – but by your hand!"

Edward recoiled in disgust. "Me? You mean, cut their heads off and all of that?"

Jauffre seemed to grow paler yet, but he nodded and managed a gurgling, "Yes."

"What is with you?!" Edward demanded. "Why are you acting like a ninny over killing a few stupid birds? What, is it some sort of fear of yours or something?" Jauffre said nothing, but sat down. Edward, egged on by his audacious silence, pressed, "Are you going to tell me you grew up with a pet duck, or something stupid like that?"

To his surprise, however, the Grandmaster nodded slowly. "Little Puddleduck," he said, his voice laden with sorrow.

Edward rolled his eyes. "Highly original name there," he hissed.

"Sweetest little duck you've ever seen," Jauffre continued. "So plump and beautiful – and all covered in feathers."

"Ducks usually are," Edward sighed in aggravation. "But let me guess...someone butchered it?"

"My parents," Jauffre nodded.

"Oh, that's so tragic," the annoyed Imperial returned mockingly. "I suppose they ate it?"

"Yes," the Grandmaster replied in a strangled voice. "And...and they made me eat it, too. It was supper, and..." He broke off, unable to continue.

"I hope it tasted good," Edward smirked.

"Taste?" Jauffre repeated in a broken voice. "It tasted like murder...death...perfidy...villainy...anguish...betrayal...damnation..."

"Interesting flavor..."

"Interesting? It was vile! Unpardonable! Excruciating!"

"Yeah, yeah," Edward interrupted. "I get it...but, that tragic, tragic story aside, are you going to butcher the ducks or not?"

Jauffre turned to him now, glaring with eyes that conveyed hellish rage. "Of course I'm not! I told you already, you are!"

"Me?" Edward protested. "But I don't want to..."

"You will do it!" the Grandmaster exploded. "Or I'll skin your filthy carcass, and serve you up alongside the other swine – and spare the poor ducks!"


	183. Chapter 183

Reasoning with the madman is a task impossible, for none can make sense of him;

Round and round his reasoning goes, until at last you wonder who is madder –

The madman, for his insanity, or you, for your attempts to reason with him?

-- Excerpt from _Treatise on the Mad_

Chapter One Hundred and Eighty-Three

After enlisting the unwilling assistance of several Blades – who all, upon learning their task, protested in the strongest terms until they had been assured that they were summoned on friar Jauffre's orders – Edward had set about his less than pleasant task. The only thing that lightened the mood of his bloody work was the fact that, in butchering these ducks, he knew he was causing the Grandmaster excruciating anguish; and that brought a smile to the blood-smattered cheeks of the Imperial.

Finally, the work was done, and the Blades – refusing to bring the ducks to Jauffre themselves – left Edward to carry in twenty headless, plucked and gutted fowl. This was too much, and not even the malicious pleasure he derived from killing the birds was able to combat the fury it filled him with.

Stomping into the kitchen, his arms overloaded with plucked, headless birds, he dropped them with a _splat, splat, splat_ onto the table before Jauffre. The Grandmaster cringed at every _splat_; but not even this improved Edward's spirits.

It took several trips, but, at last, the birds were brought into the kitchen. Jauffre's face had assumed an ashen pallor, but he was hard at work nonetheless. "So tell me," Edward snapped, "how is it that you can butcher humans with so little regard – and elves, for that matter, although I sort of understand where you're coming from on that one – but you shrink from killing a few stupid, feathered animals?"

Jauffre shot him an appalled glance. "Elves are barbarians, you fool – whereas ducks are pure and innocent, the very manifestation of divine goodness!"

Edward rolled his eyes. "I said I agree as far as elves are concerned...but you've killed other people too."

"Yes, but they all deserved to die!" Jauffre argued. "They were base barbarians, and murderers who oppose the Emperor, and in general black hearted villains."

"So everyone you've ever killed has deserved it?" Edward asked with a disbelieving stare.

"Of course!" Jauffre answered. "Even if I didn't know why, everyone deserves to die!"

Edward stared in appalled wonder at the monk. "Everyone?"

"Yes! The human heart is cold and cruel and barbarous – even the Imperial heart!" Jauffre answered. "Everyone but the Emperor, of course, and, to a lesser extent, his faithful servants."

Edward rolled his eyes. "Even if I accepted that everyone deserves to die – which I don't, by the way – you've killed other animals too. What about bears? You've killed bears before. What have they done to deserve death that ducks haven't done?"

"They're killers!" Jauffre exclaimed, as if the answer was obvious.

"But so are you!"

"Of course – I'm a person. And didn't I just say that everyone deserved to die?"

Edward frowned. In a twisted way, that made sense. "Alright then, what about cows?"

Jauffre, in turn, frowned. "How did you know I killed cows?"

Edward rolled his eyes. "Lucky guess. But what about them? How can you justify killing them?"

"They taste good!"

"So do ducks!"

The Grandmaster stared, his nose held high in the air. "That's the last time you will ever say that again in my presence," he informed Edward. "And ever at all, if you're smart."

Ignoring this threat, the Imperial demanded, "But surely tasting good isn't a reason to kill something!"

Jauffre shrugged. "It seems a good enough reason to me."

Biting his tongue to resist mentioning the tastiness of ducks, Edward still prodded, "And what of chickens? Do they taste good too?"

Jauffre shrugged. "Not particularly...but they're such stupid things..."

Sighing, the Imperial turned toward the ducks. "Maybe," he said, lifting one of them as though he was examining it, "you're right." With this, he dropped the bird. _Splat._


	184. Chapter 184

Sing a song of praise for a coward,

Sing a song misplaced indeed!

-- Popular lyrics, author unknown

Chapter One Hundred and Eighty-Four

Jauffre's fit of melancholy had quickly passed into a bout of euphoric humming and exaggerated activity. The man seemed to fly about the kitchen as if he had the energy of a hundred men, and the speed and capabilities of dozens at least.

Soon he had whipped up more rolls and breads than there were ovens, all while stuffing and dressing the meats that roasted on spits. It was here that Jauffre had felt Edward's talents were best suited; and, panting and sweating profusely, the Imperial had had no choice but to comply with his orders, and turn the spits.

It was hard work to perpetually move an animal as large as a pig; and it was hot work, when you were turning it over a fire. Jauffre seemed to take no note of Edward's discomfort, however, for, whilst the complaining Imperial worked away, he continued to fly about the kitchen, busy with this task and that.

The room began to smell of baked breads, roasted meats and vegetable dishes; but all Edward could smell was the sweat that poured off of him, and the smoke that choked his lungs.

The hours seemed to drag like an eternity in hell; but, finally, they were passed. Jauffre dismissed Edward with not so much as a thanks, and told him, "Alright, better get ready for the big celebration."

His muscles screaming in agony of the most intense sort, Edward trudged toward his room. He didn't relish the idea of showing up before the entire assembly of Blades looking like something that had just barely escaped roasting on one of the spits himself; so he determined to wash quickly before going down to eat. This proved to be a very quick task, however, for the Imperial was famished after all of his hard work.

So, after a brief scrubbing and a change of clothes, Edward raced down the staircase, eager to seat himself before the best places were taken and the food already dispersed amongst the less than worthy Blades. He was just in time, however, for people had only begun to file in.

Friar Jauffre, seated a few places away from the Emperor, waved Edward over. Cringing, the Imperial made his way over to the monk. After all, it was unlikely that the obsessed cook could have any further tasks for him now.

"Here," Jauffre said as Edward approached. "I thought it right that you sit in prominence." He gestured to an empty seat; with a disdainful glance, the younger man noted that it was situated downward yet from the Emperor, below Jauffre's position.

"Surely," he asked, his nose held at an upward angle, "I should be sitting nearer the Emperor?"

Jauffre stared at him with clear annoyance. "Those seats are reserved for whoever the Emperor invites to sit beside him. And it would be an affront to those ranking higher than you – those like myself – for you to sit there, particularly uninvited. And I don't care if you are the guest of honor or not."

His indignation melting into confusion, Edward stared at Jauffre. Guest of honor? What was he talking about? Had the mad little monk finally lost his marbles? Did he really think that the Emperor was about to _honor _him? Not eight hours ago the Emperor had just come short of publicly reprimanding him; and now the Grandmaster spoke of honor?

But he had no time to ask any of these questions, nor a polite, tactful and safe version of them, for at that moment Martin entered the room. Everyone rose, and Edward forced himself to remain on his weary feet. He cringed as he saw the telltale yellow wisp of hair trailing behind the Emperor, indicating that Docada was in the vicinity.

Martin walked to his reserved chair with a broad smile, and the elf tagged along. Edward saw Jauffre's eyes bulge with rage as the Bosmer followed the Emperor over to the seats, and the Imperial found himself hoping that Docada would make the mistake of sitting next to Martin. "_It'd be the last thing his skinny butt did,_" he thought to himself, "_because Jauffre would sure as Oblivion make short work of him._"

The Emperor, oblivious to Edward's thoughts and Jauffre's rage, turned to the assembled crowd. "My friends," he spoke. "Thank you for joining me here tonight. It has long been in my mind that it is no little honor you – all of you – pay me with your fealty and, more than that, your trust.

"There are events shaping up – of which I will speak to you soon enough – that may portend greater uncertainty for this empire than it has known in all its days. It seems it has fallen to me to lead us through these times; and you may believe me when I say that is the greatest encouragement to know that I have you at my side, traversing whatever stony paths may lie ahead with me. It may have been the will of the gods or destiny that put us here, but it is the courage of the Blades that will see us through."

The hall broke into simultaneous cheering, and Edward saw Jauffre positively glow with pride.

"To that end, my friends," Martin continued when the cheering had subsided, "I have requested this meal – what may be, for a very long time, until Mankar Camoran is defeated and the gates of Oblivion are sealed forever, our last together. So I thank you for attending; and Friar Jauffre and Edward for preparing it. This is a meal meant to honor you, the best and bravest of the Empire's warriors."

Cheering erupted again, and Edward thought – and hoped – that Jauffre would burst with pride. For a moment, Edward's mind was filled with images of wiping the slave-driver chef's entrails from the walls and floors of the great hall. Then the Emperor continued.

"It is also meant to honor one who has grown in strength and wisdom, improved by your example, and who has proved himself worthy to be counted among the Empire's greatest Knights: I present our Guest of Honor, Docada – the Hero of Kvatch."

The room was still as a tomb, and Edward felt the blood drain from his cheeks. Only the sound of Friar Jauffre collapsing to the ground roused the Blades from their stupefaction; and they, with their feigned approbation, were a moment behind Docada's entourage, and its roaring applause.


	185. Chapter 185

Water flowing over rocks,

Trickles in the desert,

The tide gone out again

Though we drown, we thirst.

-- From _Paroxysms of Despair_

Chapter One Hundred and Eighty-Five

When Jauffre awoke from his faint, he glanced about him with a trembling eye. His soldiers were cheering in an unenthusiastic manner, and Edward, he saw, was as pale as a ghost. Then it was true. The Emperor, through some fit of madness, had just thrown a feast in the honor of the most disgusting and vile of all creatures – the cowardly, reprehensible elf. And, worse yet, Martin had deceived him into cooking it.

He glanced about the hall at the succulent dishes that were laid out, and felt himself grow ill. Had he put so much time, so much care, so much passion into making each of these exquisite foods so that they could be wasted in celebrating a creature so utterly useless and despicable? Had all those ducks been butchered to celebrate an elf? "_An elf?!_"

Jauffre laid a hand across his heart, and stayed in place for several moments. He felt ill, physically and mentally. It had been bad enough when he thought that the Emperor had died as a result of his failure to teach him properly, and it had been worse to see him serving one of the likes of Edward. But to see the Emperor embrace such a low, vile creature to the royal bosom, to promote and value such worthless, witlessness, when – in the very room – there were men and women of quality? It was more than he could comprehend, and more than he feared his old heart could take.

The Emperor, it seemed, was determined to kill him. "_At least,_" he thought, "_it will be how I want to go...in service of the Empire_." Still, it was a disheartening thought to think that, after all of his faithful and true service, Martin was going to such lengths to dispose of him.

A whispered hiss roused him with a start, and he saw Edward leaning toward him. "Disgusting, isn't it?" the Imperial was asking.

Nodding slowly, the Grandmaster found his feet and his voice. "Repulsive."

"Vile."

"Atrocious."

"Unpardonable."

"Offensive."

"Humiliating."

"Hurtful," Jauffre nodded.

"To honor that...that..._creature_..."

"That _thing_..."

"That _animal_..."

"That barbarian," the Grandmaster finished.

"You know, I really wish he hadn't found a way out of...well, you know," Edward whispered.

"I do indeed, Master Edward," Jauffre nodded, a gleam coming into his eyes. Docada might have escaped being locked in a ruin and plummeting of a cliff, but surely his luck couldn't hold forever. "And I think you've hit upon just the thing..."

"I...have?"

"Yes. You know what they say!"

"What?"

"If at first you don't succeed..."

Edward's brow knitted, as if he was concentrating. Finally, he shrugged. "What?"

Jauffre sighed. With a partner like this, their task was clearly going to be difficult. No matter – they would try as many times as it took, and finally they would prevail. They could not help but to do so. Right was on their side – right, justice, fate, and destiny!

At that moment, a band of three young civilians, weak, puny men unknown to Jauffre – stood. One was a Dunmer, another a Khajiit, and the third a sad excuse for an Imperial, weaker and more foppish in appearance even than Edward. "My lords and noblemen and women," the Dunmer addressed the crowd. "We – I, Darvyl, and my companions, Teop the Khajiit and Volkus the Imperial – are here tonight to offer up praise of our inspiring chief – Docada, the hero who saved the city from whence we hail. With our Emperor's permission, we have prepared for you a series of songs detailing some small portion of his heroism. We hope you will enjoy." This was said with a smile that nearly made Jauffre retch; and then the three launched into a poetic story song that finished the trick.


	186. Chapter 186

The wisest men become fools

At the smile of a pretty woman.

-- Wisdom of the Era

Chapter One Hundred and Eighty-Six

Martin sighed, staring at the single line he'd penned so far: "_Dear Felicity_". He shook his head, crumpling the parchment to start again. That was too personal, too familiar. "_Dear Miss Smolet_," he wrote. He thought about this for a minute, and then discarded it as well. It still seemed wrong, as if he was presuming too much to use the word 'dear' in reference to her. Taking a fresh sheet of parchment, he wrote, "_To Miss Smolet_". Then, he frowned. Such a greeting seemed cold, formal, and distant, and that wasn't what he was looking for either.

Noticing Jauffre's eyes on him, and the raised eyebrows that accompanied that gaze, Martin asked, "Tell me, Jauffre, how does one address a letter to a woman?"

The Grandmaster smirked. "Well, my lord, it depends on what sort of letter, and to whom it is addressed, of course. If one is writing a love letter to a mistress..."

"Of course not," Martin snapped, his cheeks coloring. "Just a...a polite letter from a young man to a young woman."

Jauffre shrugged. "Then address it to 'Miss Whatever-Her-Name-Is'."

"No, no," Martin shook his head. "That's too...formal."

The Blade sighed. "Then 'Dear Miss Whatever-Her-Name-Is'."

Martin shook his head. "That's too...familiar."

The soldier's eyebrows rose on his forehead. "May I ask, sir, who this woman is?"

Nodding, the Emperor answered, "Felicity...that is, Miss Smolet."

"A Breton?" Jauffre asked, with what could only have been a touch of disrespect in his voice.

"That's right."

"Hmph...and is she pretty?"

Martin's cheeks flushed again. "Very."

Nodding, the soldier declared with a twinkle in his eye, "Then I think 'wench' would be appropriate. Or, if she's really pretty, 'my fine wench'."

"Jauffre!"

"Pardon me, my lord," the Blade smirked. "But you asked a rough soldier's advice, and there you have it."

The Emperor sighed. He might as well ask Edward for advice as Jauffre, for both seemed clueless as to how to properly address creatures of the feminine variety. Then, though, he found himself feeling very clueless at the moment as well. Not that, with any other woman, there would be a difficulty. "To Miss So-and-So" wouldn't sound too formal, nor "Dear Miss So-and-So" too familiar in any other instance; in fact, he probably wouldn't have given either a second thought. But, somehow, this was different. "Yes, thank you, Jauffre," he sighed. "That will be all."

"Very good, my lord." He turned to leave, but paused. With a straight face, but a tone that seemed evocative of mischief, he asked, "Will you be needing more of that?"

"Of what?"

"Parchment, my lord."

Martin frowned at the hefty stack of blank parchment before him, and then at the soldier; there was no mistaking the mischievous twinkle in his eye this time. "No, Jauffre, I won't."

"Very well, my liege," the soldier bowed and left.

The Emperor watched him go, certain that he'd caught a subtle shake of the other man's head. Then, sighing with a shake of his own head, he turned back to the task at hand.

"_Dear Miss Felicity Smolet,_" he started to write.


	187. Chapter 187

Human spiders weaving their webs,

A shadow flitting across a sunlit courtyard

Spies and traitors bent on subversive espionage

To catch or be caught, what a game we play.

-- Excerpt from _Memoirs of a Traitor_

Chapter One Hundred and Eighty-Seven

Jauffre shook his head. After feigning illness as an excuse to leave the banquet early the previous evening – and his incident of barfing aiding that lie – he had been overwhelmed by Martin's kind concern. In fact, the Emperor had been so solicitous of his wellbeing that he had been forced to reevaluate his opinion of the lad's motives in promoting the barbarian elf. He no longer believed his Emperor was attempting to do away with him by shocking him to death; instead, he imagined that Martin, always having a weakness of tolerance for the lowly barbarian peoples, had taken pity on the vile elf.

This seemed confirmed by his obvious infatuation with the barbarian woman. On this score, Jauffre wasn't terribly alarmed. Emperors were known for their myriad dalliances with the women of the Empire; and, after all, surely there weren't enough Imperial women in the Imperial city to sate the appetite of a king? No indeed, at least if Uriel Septim was anything to go by. And, better that the king should trifle with the barbarians anyway, rather than good, wholesome, honest Imperial women.

No, as far as Miss Felicity Smolet was concerned, Jauffre was not in the least bit worried. The Emperor, as so many Emperors had done before him, would have his way with the unworthy wench – and any number of similarly unworthy barbarians; but it would not be anything serious. It never was. Emperors toyed with barbarian infatuation and romantic intrigue, but they married Imperials. On this score, there was not the slightest doubt in his mind.

Likewise, his plan, concocted the night before with Edward, to the rid the Empire of the unwelcome influence of the elf, had set his mind at ease concerning the Bosmer; soon – whenever the opportunity presented itself – Docada would be no more, and the Empire would be safe from his malignant, barbarous poison.

More than that, his spies in Bruma had spotted a newcomer in the city who was making inquiries for her "friend, Martin" around town. That, of course, meant only one thing – another one of the Mythic Dawn spies had wandered into his territory, and was trying to hunt down the Emperor under the guise of finding a long lost friend. Furthermore, this newcomer was reputed to be quite the looker, and Jauffre imagined her head would make a fine addition to his collection.

Smiling to himself as he meandered down the path to Bruma, the Grandmaster found himself quite enraptured with the day. It was a lovely morning, at least for the Jerall mountains. The warmth of the sun invigorated him, and its brilliance sparkled off the snow all about in a dazzling way. There were even a few hardy plants that peeped out from underneath the snow in this perpetually frozen region; and, coarse and unrefined as they were, they lent a bit of gentleness and grace to the harsh landscape. Indeed, Jauffre found himself feeling so much at home in this bitter climate that he fancied that he might well be able to spend the rest of his life in like country, leastwise if it was not also the stomping grounds of the Nords.

At last the icy slopes gave way to paved and cleared paths, and the rugged mountain to the walls of Bruma. He sighed as he entered the city gates, but set his steps determinedly toward the Jerall View Inn. That is where his spies had followed the reclusive newcomer to, and that is where he would start his search.

Entering the inn, he addressed the publican – a man with whom he was nominally acquainted. "Hafid."

The Nord nodded. "Jauffre. What can I get you today?"

"A pint of ale, if you would."

"Of course."

Jauffre waited for the other man to fetch his drink, setting down the required coin along with a generous tip.

Hafid smiled as he pocketed the money. "Thank you, sir."

The Grandmaster nodded as he lifted the glass to his lips. He hoped his air was convincingly disinterested and purposeless.

"So, how's your hunting gone?" Hafid asked.

As far as Jauffre let on, he was just one of the handful of hunters who traversed the mountains looking for the areas' larger inhabitants – the bears, wolves and the like. The Imperial shrugged. "Good enough. I've food to fill me, and I've got enough furs to buy my ale." He laughed, and the Nord laughed with him. "How's business been? It's been pretty warm here lately, so I suppose you must have a lot of travelers?"

Hafid shrugged. "Not so much. Never do, though."

"Oh?"

"Well, there's the occasional traveler. Olav's Tap and Tack tends to get the...well, those who choose to spend less on their lodgings."

"I see."

"We get the remnant," Hafid smiled. "But that's not so bad...this inn has an air about it, and you get the wrong people here, and that spoils its air."

"Quite so," Jauffre agreed. "Plus you've got the best food in town."

"Oh yes," the Nord nodded. "There's not many cooks like Snar here in Cyrodiil."

"True enough," the Imperial declared, taking another sip of his drink. It was clear that the publican wasn't going to tell him anything without additional prodding – and that would have to be done discreetly. After a pause, he asked, "I'll tell you, though, the mountain nights get to an old man's bones sometimes."

Hafid nodded. "I live in town for a reason...it gets awfully cold out there, and these bones of mine are too old to take it."

Jauffre shook his head in agreement. "I think," he said, "I'll spend a few nights in town. You have that room still open, don't you?"

Here, Hafid shuffled his feet. "I'm terribly sorry, but I'm afraid I don't, Jauffre. See, a lady came up here two days ago...she's rented it for the week. And I've got that architect fellow whose been here for half a year now, and -"

Jauffre shook his head. "No worries, my friend. Just as well, I suppose. I should save my coin."

Hafid looked as though he felt guilty. "Well, I'm sure Olav has a room," he said. "If you're not feeling up to the mountains."

The Grandmaster shrugged. "Bah, may as well conquer it as not. Anyway, I'll fill up on enough of this to keep me warm through a blizzard." He laughed, draining his mug. "Top 'er off, will you?"


	188. Chapter 188

Take care, little sparrow,

Ere you follow the fox;

Beware now, little mouse,

Lest you believe the cat.

-- _Better Part of Valor_

Chapter One Hundred and Eighty-Eight

Felicty Smolet donned a heavy cloak and stepped out of her room. The morning was well underway by now, but she'd had a rotten night's sleep. "_It must be the mountain air,_" she thought. Felicity had always lived in the midlands, and was unused to high altitudes; but, if the truth were known, her discomfort and sleeplessness derived not from the mountain heights, but rather from her current proximity to the place where her beloved had been slain.

She had thought she'd come to terms with Mattheius' death; but being here challenged that belief. It was one thing to recognize that her fiancé was now in a better place than this one, and another to forget what his last moments must have been. She had come here to find Martin; and now she found herself thinking about Mattheius.

Her steps were quick and ringing on the wood floor of the inn; her eyes barely took in the old gentleman sipping his ale at the counter, or the young Nord woman eating her meal at a nearby table. She pulled her cloak tight around her as she stepped into the brisk air, and sank gratefully into the fur lining as a blast of cold mountain air swept the raised sidewalk.

The sight of the town, the warmth of the sun, and even the chill air, helped to drive away the cobwebs of memory and sorrow that had preyed upon her mind as she sat in her room. She exhaled once, and then set her steps toward the county hall. She had already checked the inns and town, and most of the shops; no one had seen Martin, nor had they heard of him.

This fact puzzled and perplexed her. She had been told by that nice man, Baurus, that he was here...and he had seemed so respectable. Why would he lie about something like that? If Edward had told her, she would have no trouble disbelieving...but the Redguard seemed the picture of gentlemanly honesty.

If anyone in town had heard of Martin, it seemed likely that the Countess would have. After all, she was rumored to be a very adept leader; a stranger's sojourn in her town was not likely to go unnoticed by her. And, anyway, since Martin had hunted the bandits down, it was possible that he had reported his adventure to the proper authorities so that they could dispose of the bodies and ill-gotten gains.

So, the young woman headed with a brisk step toward the castle. She barely heard the footsteps behind her, until a voice accosted her. "Excuse me, miss?"

She turned, and saw the speaker. He was an old gentleman, and vaguely familiar looking. "Yes?"

He smiled, and extended his hand. "My name is Jauffre, Miss. I hate to bother you...but I believe you were looking for my friend?"

There had been something in the old man's eyes that belied the sweet smile that crossed his lips – something that had sent a chill up her spine. But his mention of Martin drove those fears from her mind. "Yes! That is, at least, if you mean Martin?"

The old man nodded and smiled. "The same, miss. I know where he's staying."

"Oh?"

"Yes, he's a very dear friend of mine. Would you like me to take you to him?"

Felicity nodded. "Yes, please."

"Very good, Miss. He's not in Bruma – as you've doubtless figured out."

"He's not? But..."

"He's very near it, Miss. In one of the homesteads in the mountains."

She nodded. That made perfect sense, after all. "And you can tell me where he is?"

"Tell you?" Jauffre asked. "Well, I could do that, but I doubt you'd find it."

"Oh?"

"The mountains are treacherous, Miss...hard to navigate. Better if I just take you – it's not a long way. You'd be back before lunch."

She nodded slowly. She wanted – had – to find Martin, but some part of her hesitated to go with this stranger. "Oh...well, I...I don't really have climbing boots on..." she stalled.

"Oh," Jauffre said, and he sounded a bit disappointed. "I see. Well, we wouldn't be doing too much climbing...but, if you're not ready...I really have to be getting going anyway."

She frowned, and relief and consternation swept her simultaneously. "But...well..."

"Don't worry about it, Miss," Jauffre smiled politely. "I'm supposed to be heading back with some of my furs today anyway."

"Furs?"

"Yes miss. I'm a hunter."

"Oh," she nodded. That would explain his gruff air, wouldn't it? He was a man who got his living from killing things. Perhaps, after all, she was letting her imagination run wild; and what if she was letting her only chance to find Martin go? "Well...that is, you said he's near here?"

"Oh yes, miss. Quite near."

She nodded. "Well...I suppose I could...that is, a short journey should be fine."

He smiled. "I'm sure it will be. It's mostly on the roads, after all."

Steeling herself, she declared resolutely, "Alright – I'm ready then, if you are."

"Very good miss," Jauffre nodded. "We can head right out this gate here." He pointed to the nearest entrance.

She nodded. "Thank you. But please, call me Felicity."


	189. Chapter 189

Like a lamb to the slaughter,

Innocent and unsuspecting she came

Heeding not the whispered warnings,

Until it was all too late.

-- From _A Dance with Death, and Related Stories_

Chapter One Hundred and Eighty-Nine

Jauffre smiled to himself, and fought hard to keep his lip from curling upward in show of the predatory instincts that had gained hold of him. He had seen the girl's resistance, but now...now she was nearly in his grasp. He just had to play his part right, to keep acting like a pleasant old hunter, until they were outside of the city, and out of sight of the guards. Then...

His smile broadened, and he was glad he was walking ahead of the girl, acting as her guide, lest she had seen the animal-like qualities of that grin.

She was everything his men had said, and then some. She was beautiful – astonishingly so, for a Breton – of face and figure, with high cheekbones, rosy cheeks, sweet eyes... Gods, but she would make a gorgeous addition to his collection. He could see her already – the death glaze covering those deceptive, treacherous eyes, the ashen pallor of eternal slumber touching those pink cheeks, the icy hand of the netherworld lending its beauty to those lovely features. Yes, she would soon be his.

"Jauffre?" he heard her ask behind him. Wiping the grin from his face, he glanced back at her.

"Yes?"

"Is he – Martin, I mean – a hunter too, then?"

"Sometimes," the monk nodded. He wasn't quite sure of what she was getting at, and he didn't want to give himself away. The less information, therefore, that he divulged, the better.

"He was a fighter, you know," she told him. "Back in the Imperial City, I mean. Grand Champion of the Arena."

Jauffre cringed to think of the Emperor engaged in such low and base activity, but he managed to feign interest as he returned, "Oh?"

"Yes."

"Is that how you met him?" the monk asked. He would draw her out, he figured, as much as possible. As it was, Martin had been less than pleased with the fact that he'd slaughtered the majority of the last dozen or so spies without so much as questioning them. Now, though he'd still slaughter her, at least he was covered.

"Oh no," she returned. "I heard about him – Dragonheart, he called himself – but I didn't actually meet him. Not until..." Her face clouded. "He did me a great service, actually."

"Oh?" He hoped his query conveyed more interest than he felt, for he couldn't care less about her story; it was all lies anyway, he was certain. "That's very interesting, I'm sure."

"So tell me," she asked, clearly attempting to change the subject, "have you known him long?"

"Most of his life," Jauffre admitted, picking up his pace a bit. Her reluctance to divulge the details of meeting Martin only seemed to confirm the fact that she had made up the event, and he was determined to get her out of sight of the guards as soon as possible.

"Really?" He noted a touch of surprise in her tone.

"That's right."

"Oh...well, I've only known him a few months."

"I see."

The pair fell into silence, and he heard her breathing grow labored as he continued to increase their pace up the mountain path. The walls of Bruma were almost hidden now – which meant that he was very nearly out of the sight of any guards who might be patrolling atop them. Then this vixen would meet a fitting end, and justice would be done this beautiful agent of the enemy.

At that moment, however, a sharp cry of alarm sounded from the girl, and he spun around just in time to see her tumbling backwards. Springing after her to stop her fall – there was no way he was going to let nature cheat him out of a kill he'd earned! – he was dismayed to see her land with a crash before he was able to reach her. A trickle of blood stained crimson the elegant fur hood that she wore, and he noted that her head had impacted sharply with the stone path underfoot.

"Hello!" he called, shaking her gently. "Wake up!" He growled as she made no response. She seemed not to be breathing, for he could discern no risings and fallings of her chest as she inhaled and exhaled air; and she did not move at all. How dare this treacherous little would-be murderess, he wondered with great annoyance, die before he could kill her? He had earned the right to slay her, fair and square; and now she had cheated him.

Sighing in an ill-humored fashion at this deprivation, he nonetheless grasped the hilt of his sword. The blade glimmered in the sun as he drew it out, and caught on his ring as he tugged at the fastenings of her cape. She might have died before he could kill her, but no one else needed to know that – and he would have her head all the same!

Displacing the hood and cloak so as to reveal her long, shapely neck, he readied for the strike that would sever her head.


	190. Chapter 190

The cares of a man of state are plentiful,

But the worries of his servants many times more so

For they bear the burdens of the master,

And their own thousand cares as well.

-- From _The Ways of Statecraft_

Chapter One Hundred and Ninety

It was then that he noted, for the first time, the ring she wore. It was a signet ring, and one that Jauffre had seen before. A frown spread across his brow, and he stayed his hand momentarily.

Where, he wondered, where had he seen that?

Then, recognition swept him. That was the ring that Martin had discovered in the bandits' lair -- the ring that belonged to Miss Smolet. "Miss _Felicity_ Smolet," he said aloud, staring wonderingly at the corpse. Was it possible that this Mythic Dawn agent was, in fact, the same girl that Martin had been writing to that very morning?

His brow furrowed in thought, he uttered a curse aloud. Was it further possible that Miss Smolet, being the Emperor's love interest, was actually _not_ a Mythic Dawn agent? Was it possible that she had not been seeking him to kill him, but to continue their romantic affair?

He stared down at her body in a very vexed manner. It had been bad enough that she'd slipped and fallen to her death; he'd at least been about to harvest her head then. But now...was it really possible that the Emperor's mistress lay dead – and because he had deliberately rushed her up a steep mountain path in shoes that were not meant for climbing?

"Oh blast!" Somehow, things seemed to never turn out right for him lately. This was but one more evidence of that.

Plopping down beside the beautiful corpse, he sighed. This surely was not going to boost him in Martin's opinion. As it was, when a man was infatuated with a woman, he was liable to lose his head. Now that he, Jauffre, had killed that woman, _he _was liable to lose his own head. "Oh blast," he repeated.

It was, then, with great relief that he noted as he stared at Felicity a subtle rising and falling of her form. His head perked up. She was breathing! "She's not dead!"

Lifting her head, he flicked her cheeks with his hand, first gently, and then rather brusquely. "Wake, you foolish wench!" he demanded.

But she made no response. Sighing in an annoyed fashion, Jauffre determined that the best thing to do was bring her to Cloud Ruler Temple. Bruma was considerably closer, but he had no desire to explain what had happened to the guards; furthermore, the hope yet lingered in the old warrior's chest that Felicity might prove to be a Mythic Dawn spy – and that he might be able to execute her, and add her pretty head to his collection.

So, hoisting the girl's body over his shoulder, Jauffre trudged up the mountainside, growling all the way.


	191. Chapter 191

Fear, never so real until Death knocks

Terror, when He asks for a loved one.

-- Tribute to Mortality, unknown author

Chapter One Hundred and Ninety-One

There was a great deal of commotion as the Grandmaster marched into the fortress, a slender body draped over his shoulder. It was a rare thing indeed to see Friar Jauffre transporting a body like this. For one thing, it was alive; and, for another, it was in no way dismembered. It was therefore immediately clear to everyone present that this was a personage of some importance.

"Call the Emperor," Jauffre commanded. "He's got a visitor!"

One Blade, cringing but obeying, hastened to Martin's door, and knocked. "Come in."

The man did as he was bade, and pushed the door open. Stepping inside, he bowed. "My lord," he said. "Friar Jauffre requests your immediate presence. He has brought you...a guest."

Martin frowned, but rose to follow the man. He noted that the Blade stepped aside and seemed to disappear on the sidelines as he emerged into the opening of the hall; but then he was too consumed by the sight before him to notice any more of the other man's flight.

There, laid out on a fine cloak, lay Felicity Smolet, blood smeared in her hair and dried and crusted along her face.

"What happened?" he demanded, crossing the room with all haste to be at her side.

"Well, sir," Jauffre answered, "I met Miss Smolet in Bruma. She was looking for you. I knew that you would like to see her, so I was leading her here when she suddenly lost her footing and had a rather nasty fall. I carried her all the way here myself, because I didn't dare leave her out there unconscious, what with the wild creatures and all."

Martin nodded, his brow creased with worry. "Quite right, Jauffre," he said absently, his eyes busily taking in the girl's injuries. "Quite right." He fell into his observations for a few moments, tilting her head and parting her hair to examine the source of the trickling blood; and then he glanced up at the onlookers with anxious eyes. "Quick, Jauffre. Summon the healer – and tell him to bring strong healing potions. I suspect she has a concussion."

The monk seemed to bristle at these directives, as if he was affronted at having been given such a trivial task, but Martin took no notice. Instead, he concentrated on calling forth the healing powers that he possessed, primitive though they were in comparison to a professional healer.

He worked with haste and determination – not because he feared that some tragedy would befall Felicity in the time it took to summon the healer, but because he could not bear to watch her lying still, bloody and helpless on the cold stones. It was little more than an illusion, a pretense to soothe his own agonized senses, but he worked with as much fury as if he were battling Death for her very life.

When, at last, the fortress healer emerged, Martin sat back, his face very pale. He had seen some of the color come back to Felicity's cheeks due to his spell casting, but not as much as he would have hoped.

"Well now, what 'ave we 'ere?" the man of medicine wondered. Observing the girl, and turning her head to the side rather brusquely, he remarked, "Pretty lil' thing, isn't she? But how did this happen?"

"She fell," Jauffre answered. "Slipped and tumbled backwards."

"I see. Well, then, I think I have just the thing for her." Here, he produced a vial of liquid from a bag he carried at his side. "Course, we'll have to wake her for 'er to drink this."

Martin nodded. The other man's sure attitude helped to calm him somewhat, but he was still exceedingly anxious.


	192. Chapter 192

Hear me, brothers and sisters –

Put off your cloaks of darkness,

Step out of the dreary shadow;

Embrace the healing light of Dawn!

– Partial transcript of a Mankar Camoran sermon

Chapter One Hundred and Ninety-Two

Felicity had been groggy when she'd awoken, but her mind was clearing now. Her senses still swam, but she felt that confusion melting away in an aura she knew well – healing magic.

She wasn't sure what had happened, but she vaguely remembered stumbling backwards on the mountainside; and her years of training as a mage left no doubt in her mind that she was currently under the effects of a healing spell, and likely a potion of the same sort.

She felt reassured through all of this wondering, even in her disoriented state, by the presence of the one face she had come all this way to find. "Martin!"

He and a few others were leaned over her, but it was only on his face that concern was plastered. "Shhh," he hushed. "It's alright. You're going to be fine. You just took a fall, that's all."

Felicity nodded. She remembered that. "But...where am I?" Her senses might have been somewhat overpowered at the moment, but she was certain that she'd never seen this place before.

"You..." Martin frowned, turning behind him. She heard him ask, "You mean, you didn't tell her?"

"No sir," another voice – one that she recognized with a shiver as Jauffre's – returned, "I thought...that is, I wasn't sure..."

Martin nodded, and then his eyes had returned to her. "You're in Cloud Ruler Temple, Felicity."

"Cloud Ruler Temple?" She blinked, wishing her brain was more cooperative. For all that she could remember, she had never even heard of it before. "What's...that?"

"It's...it's a fortress."

"A fortress?"

"That's right...you see..." Martin trailed off, his eyes holding hers. Then he sighed. "Well, you may as well know. You would have found out soon enough, anyway."

Pushing herself up to a sitting position, Felicity steadied herself with her hands. For a second, her head swam and she felt her consciousness slipping away; but then the darkness seeped away, and her senses returned. Only then was she aware that, throughout the entire maneuver, Martin had been speaking.

"...you should stay still for awhile, until the potion takes full effect," he was finishing.

"What?"

"You hit your head, Felicity," he explained again. "You were...hurt very badly. We had to give you a healing potion – a very strong one. You need to rest until it completes its work."

She nodded, and at once regretted doing so. A fresh wave of dizziness assailed her; but, holding still, it was gone in a moment. "Very well, I will," she answered. "But...what were you saying? What was it that I would have found out?"

"Well...that is..."

She frowned. She might have hit her head, but there was no mistaking the fact that her friend was stalling. "Yes?"

"This fortress...it's..."

At that moment, Jauffre's voice interrupted in a low tone, "Sir, are you sure..."

Martin nodded, "Quite sure." Then, inhaling as if to steady himself, he took her hand in his and gazed into her eyes. "Felicity, prepare yourself for...well, something rather surprising. You see...this place...it's a Blade fortress."

"A...Blade fortress?" she repeated. Her wooziness seemed gone, but still the words took a few moments to sink in. "You mean...the Blades? The Emperor's body guards?"

Martin nodded. "That's right...you see..." He glanced down. "The Emperor isn't dead."

"The Emperor...you mean...Uriel Septim?" Felicity gasped. "Not dead? But...but they displayed his body in the..."

The young man shook his head. "No, not Uriel...his...his son."

"One of the princes, alive? But...how?"

Again, Martin shook his head. "No, not one of the princes either. You see...that is...the Emperor had another son."

"He did?" Felicity asked, frowning. "But how is that possible? There were only three princes."

"This son...he wasn't a prince...that is, not an acknowledged prince...but he was the Emperor's son all the same...and that means that he is the...the Emperor's heir."

Felicity felt her expression brighten. That explained Martin's strange behavior, didn't it? And the fact that no one knew where he was, and why he hadn't told her about the fortress in the beginning? Surely he must be involved, somehow, with the Blades. "An Emperor? Who is he?"


	193. Chapter 193

Phantoms of the dream world,

Whispers of hopes and fears,

Shadows of sorrow terrible,

And hints of joys great.

– From the preface to _Thoughts on that Netherworld, the Land of Dreams, _by the Imperial Physician, Sirgus Fisizio

Chapter One Hundred and Ninety-Three

Edward yawned as he stepped into the hall. His misadventures as Jauffre's kitchen assistant had exhausted him to such a degree that he had only now dragged himself out of bed – and that was only because all the damnable noise out here had woken him.

He noted the crowd of ruffians – Blades – all gathered around some central point, but he really couldn't care less what that point was. "What in hell's bells is all this noise?!" he demanded. "I was trying to sleep?!"

* * *

Martin heard a commotion and glanced up. He wasn't sure what the noise was, but he felt himself grateful for it all the same. He had been about to answer Felicity's question, and tell her who the Emperor was...but he couldn't.

Something about the way he felt when she was near him, as now, combined with the fact that she had come all the way from the Imperial City in search of him, made him hesitate; then, when her expression had lit up so much as she asked the Emperor's identity...

Fear, not of mortal peril, but of something much worse, stayed his tongue. He couldn't tell her without knowing what that expression had meant. Did she know already? Would it change...

Here, his thoughts took another turn. What? Was there anything at all _to_ change? This he didn't know; but he couldn't tell her before he did.

By now, he had seen Edward emerge, and had heard him complain about the noise. His own eyes lit up with inspiration, as he answered in a loud, clear tone, "Edward is the Emperor's son. Isn't that right, your majesty?"

* * *

Edward blinked into the fortress' sunlit courtyard. It wasn't that the sun was affecting his eyes; no, indeed. It was just that he was having that dream again...the one where he was Emperor, and finally everyone was bowing to him.

"_Strange..._" He hadn't had this dream in a while, and never as vividly as this time. Plus, things were a little off. Instead of lining up to salute him, as they had before, they all seemed gathered about some focal point; but he couldn't make out what through the crowd.

Then it seemed to part before him, and his eyes perceived what they all took in. Martin, the Pretender Emperor, was kneeling before him.

Edward's face lit up. This was a happy rendition of the dream. Generally, Martin fought his fate; it was nice to see him surrender to it, acknowledging the true superiority of Edward's claim.

Then the Imperial frowned. There was something else out of place here. That girl -- what was her name, the irksome Breton? -- was sprawled out on the ground as well, and seemed a bit woozy.

"You!" Edward called, his tone imperious and haughty, "What is that wench doing in my castle?"

Martin started, saying "Forgive me." Then, almost as if it had been an afterthought, he added, "Sire." Edward frowned. "You see, Miss Smolet heard I was here, and came to visit. Isn't that right, Grandmaster Jauffre?"

Edward shivered as he heard that name, the name of his nemesis. In every dream, the monk had been his one overriding fear. Never, no matter how many times he'd envisioned himself on the throne, beheading the Pretender Emperor, or casting him into a dungeon never to be seen again, or exiling him to a barren desert island, never had he been free of that fearful apparition, that daunting shadow. Every moment, every joy, was tainted with a fear so real that it made his skin crawl, so terrible that his skin slicked in a cold sweat at the mere thought. And here, sure enough, was the name of Jauffre to ruin this otherwise pleasant dream.

"Yes, sir...if you say so," came the familiar, daunting voice.

Edward gulped and turned to the monk. "Fr...friar Jauffre?" Too frightened was he to notice Martin, glancing significantly at the Grandmaster. He only saw the monk bow low.

"My lord."

Edward stared in wonder. It had never happened like this; there had never been respect or acceptance from Jauffre. Was it possible, he wondered, that it was the girl's presence, perhaps, that made this whole dream so pleasant? Was she some phantom, some good little sprite of the dream world, who had wandered into his sleepy reverie? His first impulse had been to cast the insolent wench out of his fortress, but now...now he hesitated. The only time she had appeared in his dreams, suddenly everything was going right. He was Emperor. Everyone bowed before him -- even Jauffre. The Pretender Emperor made no claim to the throne, nor tried to impede his rule; he groveled along with all the rest, proving himself to be a sycophantic leech like any other courtier.

This last milestone in his thoughts decided the hesitating Imperial, and he smiled broadly. "Welcome to Cloud Ruler Temple, my dear Miss Smolet!"


	194. Chapter 194

To play a little game,

Listen all you who would play

When all is begun,

Better see it through 'till its done.

-- From _The Prankster's Guide_

Chapter One Hundred and Ninety-Four

Felicity walked with Martin to the kitchen, her brow creased pensively.

"Are you unwell?" he asked, and his tone seemed expressive of great concern.

Rousing from her thoughts, she shook her head. "No, no...it's just...well, I'm glad the Empire has an Emperor and all...but I never imagined it would be...Edward." She flushed as she said this last word, for her tone had hardly conveyed the respect that a subject should show when discussing her Emperor.

Martin smiled. "It is a little strange, I suppose. But you don't know him as well as I do...he has his moments, certainly...but, at heart, he is a good man, I think."

Felicity frowned at him. That seemed such a remarkable thing to say, particularly by a sensible, intelligent person. "Edward? A good man?" She couldn't repress her surprise.

The young man's lips twinged in amusement again, but he said only, "Yes, in his own way."

Sighing, she bit her lip. Somehow, she preferred things when there was no Emperor; certainly, there was a risk of civil war, internal strife, power struggles, and all the things that accompanied a powerful civilization left leaderless...but with Edward at the helm, suddenly what had seemed like a remote, fearful possibility was now a stark reality. "At least," she said slowly, "he has you to advise him."

Martin laughed quietly. "Yes, that is true. Although he doesn't listen to my advice very often, I'm afraid."

Her forehead creased in thought, Felicity asked, "Did you always know? That he was Emperor, I mean. Is that why you...well, put up with him?"

"No, of course not."

This was said with sincerity, and somehow the answer made her feel better. She still had no faith in Edward's supposed goodness, but the fact that her friend regarded him well before there was a potential for significant gain sat well with her. "Then why?"

Martin sighed, and then answered, "It was better than remaining at that inn, for sure."

"Inn?"

"Yes...where I first met him. I worked at the Inn of Ill Omen, and he stopped there on...on a mission."

"A mission?"

"That's right. He was...avenging the death of a young girl."

Felicity frowned. "Edward? Avenging a death?"

Martin nodded. "That's right. I told you, he really is a good person."

The frown still on her brow, Felicity wondered aloud, "But...he always seemed so..."

Martin nodded again. "I know. It's just...just how he is."

Her expression lightening, Felicity suggested, "Maybe it's the Septim blood."

"I...that's possible, certainly," Martin answered, his gaze falling.

Somehow, Felicity got the distinct impression that he didn't agree; and, reflecting on the issue herself, it seemed unlikely. Edward was just pompous, and would have been if he had been an innkeeper's son or the Emperor's. And yet...and yet her friend had such prodigious faith in him.

Maybe, she thought with a twinge of guilt, she had been too quick to judge Edward. Maybe his petulant manner and haughty demeanor had blinded her to the good man beneath. And, after all, didn't an Emperor have the right to look down on his subjects? What was colossal effrontery in a common man was simply the right of the Emperor.

"Are you alright?" Martin asked, and his voice roused her from her thoughts again.

Glancing up, she saw his forehead creased with worry. "I'm fine...I was just thinking."

"Are you sure?" he persisted.

Smiling, she answered, "Quite...you've no reason to be worried. Whatever that healer gave me really did the trick. I feel perfectly fine."

"Well," Martin said, and it was clear that he was still concerned despite her assurances, "you should still eat something. It will make you feel stronger."


	195. Chapter 195

Better not to undertake a thing

Than to place stock and trust in a fool.

-- From the _Guide to Young Princes_

Chapter One Hundred and Ninety-Five

Jauffre growled under his breath as he wiped down the blade of his sword over and over again, despite the fact that it already shone blindingly. "Absurd," he repeated, for the hundredth time.

This really was too much. He had seen any number of antics and charades put on by Emperors to impress their women, but this was certainly the most degrading and obscene. But, then, Martin had worked as a servant, hadn't he? He obviously lacked that sense of Septim pride, wherewith a man would starve before doing an honest day's work – much less pretending to be a servant when he was Emperor.

"Poor lad," Jauffre sighed. "No one can ever know about his beginning...it really would ruin his reputation forever."

Then, however, his thoughts turned back once more to the dilemma at hand, and his expression took on a dark hue. He knew better than to interfere with whatever game Martin had going -- Emperors weren't wont to forgive men who showed them up to their mistresses -- but he couldn't suffer the idea of bowing to Edward another time.

"It's preposterous!" a much hated voice piped up beside him.

Jauffre's breathing descended into low, uneven growling once more. The fact that he, Grandmaster of the Blades, the most revered and feared soldier in the entire Empire, was reduced to playing charades was bad enough; but to compound and increase his misery, until it reached unbearable levels, was the fact that he was left with one source of consolation: the despised elf. It was he, and only he, who seemed to view this disgusting, degrading game with the same level of revulsion as the monk; and that fact only served to exacerbate his pain.

Where once he'd abandoned the idea that the Emperor might be attempting to do away with him, now it returned again to his mind. Was that Martin's plan? Did he prefer, rather than asking for his resignation, to kill him by inches? Was he vying for the most shocking, disgraceful act he could fathom, until, at last, the soldier's old heart gave out?

Surely, no one could inadvertently commit so many atrocities, when he knew -- had to know! -- what they would do to an old man?

"Why?" Docada whined, as Jauffre closed his eyes and breathed deeply to steady his nerves. "Why would he do that? Bow...to Edward? I'd sooner die!"

He fought to still his tongue, but the soldier could not help but agree, "Me too."

"And yet, he is the Emperor. I'm sure he has a reason -- a good reason, that we cannot see, because he is so wise, and we are not as wise."

Clenching his jaw, the monk managed to refrain from speech. Was it possible that his one comrade in this struggle -- vile though he was -- was now turning on him?

At that moment, footsteps sounded in the hall outside the room. Jauffre was glad of the distraction. As much as he wanted to kill the elf, he was sure Martin wouldn't approve...and he had just spent a long time polishing his sword...he'd prefer to wait until a time when he had a more acceptable reason for dirtying the blade.

A messenger entered the room, and, speaking with a nervous edge to his voice, declared, "Grandmaster Jauffre, the Emperor demands your immediate presence."

Feeling his face light up, Jauffre asked, "Martin? Then he's done with that charade!"

"No sir," the messenger corrected, seeming more nervous by the moment. "Not that Emperor...the...other one."

"Edward?" the Grandmaster managed through clenched teeth.

"Yes sir. He said it was urgent. I think...I think you'd better hurry."


	196. Chapter 196

When ill advised trust is placed,

It will be soon repented.

– From the _Guide to Young Princes_

Chapter One Hundred and Ninety-Six

Twenty-five minutes -- and as many messages sent to hurry him along -- later, Jauffre appeared before Edward. The latter was seated in the ornate, high backed chair that served as a throne in the fortress.

The soldier felt his blood boil. The real Emperor, Martin, hardly ever made use of that throne, declaring it "too pompous" for him; and there was this pretender, making the most of his few minutes in power by desecrating the throne, defiling the seat on which only the most royal of bottoms were supposed to sit, with his lowly, common bottom.

It was almost too much for the monk; but, mustering all of his courage for Martin's sake, he played along. Bowing very stiffly, he asked, "Your Majesty summoned me?"

"Yes, I did!" the sprawled out Edward declared peevishly. "Half an hour ago, I might add!"

"I came as fast as I could, your...majesty. And, begging your pardon, it was not half an hour ago."

Edward's eyes bulged, and he demanded, "You dare to contradict me?!"

"No sir...only to correct you."

"Correct me? Me?! I am the Emperor, you blasted little soldier! I am never wrong!"

Jauffre felt his hands reaching for the hilt of his sword -- and he loosed a silent prayer of thanks to the Nine that he had deemed it wise to leave the blade with Docada before answering Edward's summons.

"Now, apologize or I'll have your head!" Edward continued, his cheeks growing very red in sheer rage.

"Apologize?"

"That's right! This very minute, or I swear, by the Nine, I'll have your head!"

There was something so rabid in Edward's tone that the soldier heard himself complying, although he wasn't sure why. "Yes, my lord. I beseech you to forgive me for my error."

Sniffing, Edward leaned back a little in his chair. "That's better. Not good, but better than before. Now, I called you, Jauffre, because I've had it with your attitude. Do you hear?"

Jauffre blinked at this. Had Martin set this nuisance up to this? Then, he cringed. Perhaps Felicity had related a more accurate account of their trip -- and the reckless way he had hurried her up the side of the mountain -- to Martin, and this was the Emperor's revenge. Grimacing inwardly, he decided it would be best to play along. He would not be the one to disrupt the Emperor's scheme, whatever and no matter how mad it was. "Yes, my lord."

"Good! Now, I've come up with a list of tasks that you must perform to redeem yourself. Penance, if you will. You are to perform them all -- yourself! No delegating them to others. If I hear that you have done so, you will repent it, do you hear?"

"Yes, my lord."

"Very well. Here is your task, then. First and foremost, your general behaviors. From now on, you are to prostrate yourself completely in my presence. You will not turn your back on me as you leave the room, and you will not raise your eyes to me unless given permission. Do you understand?"

If lightning had struck the monk, he could not have been more surprised. Even his own voice sounded foreign and peculiar to him as it answered, "Yes, my lord."

"Well?" Edward demanded. "What are you waiting for?"

"My lord?" Jauffre, the picture of confusion, asked.

"Accord me the respect I demand!!" Edward shrieked, his face turning purple and red with rage.

Blinking, the words sunk in. "You mean...now?"

"Yes! Now!"

For half an instant, Jauffre was torn between several courses of action. Firstly, he knew he could just obey Edward's tyrannical dictates. This was ranked last amongst his choices. More favorably, he contemplated resigning his commission to Martin, and declaring that he would have none of these disgusting games. Finally, and what seemed best at the moment, he visualized throttling Edward for his impudence, and his role in this atrocious charade.

Realizing with what disfavor the real Emperor would view this act, he was left to contemplate his second choice. The thought of resigning his duty, however, filled him with such a prospect of emptiness and defeat that he found himself instinctively prostrating himself before the mock emperor.

Glaring up at Edward, he demanded, "Is this better?!" To this, he quickly added, "Your majesty?"

Edward's eyes bulged with fury. "I said you are only allowed to gaze on my royal countenance when bid to do so! Avert your eyes, blackguard!"


	197. Chapter 197

Provoke the tiger,

And feel his claws;

Tempt your fate,

And rue the results.

-- Excerpt from _The Better Part of Valor_

Chapter One Hundred and Ninety-Seven

Martin smiled as he listened to Felicity. She was telling him how she met Jauffre in Bruma, but it wasn't her words that made him smile; it was the sound of her voice. It was magic, like the magic that the greatest healers used, except purer and more powerful.

Suddenly, the smashing of wood against wood disturbed their quiet discussion, and Martin leaped to his feet. It sounded as if a door was being battered in, and images of Mythic Dawn agents flooding the gates of Cloud Ruler Temple filled his mind.

The next instant, however, those thoughts were displaced by an image nearly as frightening. Friar Jauffre, his face a fearful mix of purple and red, had splintered the door to the kitchen, and was standing before him, shaking with fury.

"Jauffre? Is everything alright?"

"I need to talk with you, sir."

Martin gulped. Apparently, things were not going well. "Right now?"

"Now!"

"Very well," he sighed. "Excuse me, Felicity. I'll be back as soon as I can."

Jauffre turned on his heel and marched rigidly out of the room, and Martin hastened to keep up. When, at last, they were out of Felicity's hearing, he stopped the soldier.

"Look here, Jauffre, what's all this about? I was in the middle of a conversation, you know!"

"Murder!" Jauffre breathed raggedly. "That's what this about! I'm going to kill him!"

Martin blinked. What could have upset the monk so much? "Who, Jauffre? And why?"

"Edward!"

"Edward? But why? He's playing along, isn't he?"

"Playing along?" Jauffre choked out. "Oh yes, he's certainly doing that! He had me lying with my face on the floor before him, and then crawling out of the room backwards, he's playing along so well!"

Martin cringed. "Oh dear...I guess...he really wants to make this believable."

Jauffre's eyes flamed. "He says I'm to take down all of my heads, and to go down to Bruma, and buy a dozen ducks, and roast them all up tonight." The soldier was clenching his fists so hard that his hands -- nevermind the knuckles -- had turned white. "I won't do it! I resign! I cannot serve you any longer, my Emperor, if this is the cost!"

Martin blinked again. "Now Jauffre, I'm sure...I'm sure he'll let you keep your heads up. I'm sure he's just...just trying to appear demanding, and imperious, that's all."

"He's going to appear in a pine box, if he gives me one more order!" Jauffre snarled.


	198. Chapter 198

Careful where you tread,

When you're at the top

For take a single misstep

And it's a long fall.

-- Excerpt from _The Better Part of Valor_

Chapter One Hundred and Ninety-Eight

Edward sighed. It was a glorious thing to be Emperor, but still he felt a nagging sense of annoyance. He was king, if only in this delightful dream, and yet...yet his impudent servant still lived, breathing the pure air of the Empire – his Empire – and posing an ever constant threat to his rule.

Though this was but a dream, it seemed unconscionable to permit that treacherous leech to continue about his miscreant business; indeed, though it might be a dream unrealized outside of the realms of sleep, he might as well put the loathsome valet in his place once and for all.

The difficulty, of course, was not in coming to this conclusion, but in deciding how to go about enacting it. Did he throw Martin in the dungeon at once? Did he sentence him to death? And what sort of death? Was beheading sufficient after all the outrages and offenses his wayward servant had subjected him to? Would a good bout of torture beforehand help to even the score?

Pondering this for a moment, Edward sighed. It really was a puzzler. On the one hand, he felt that he'd convinced Jauffre of how serious he was; on the other, he still feared the monk -- and that fear made him hesitate to embark upon any of these courses of action.

"_Perhaps_," he mused, "_I should just have them both beheaded._" As delicious as the idea of putting Martin and Jauffre's heads atop the monk's own signature pikes, this idea presented another difficulty. "_The Blades would never do it...they'd be too afraid. And I..._" Here, he broke off shivering. The very idea of challenging Jauffre filled him with mortification.

And yet...yet he could not let his insolent servant continue on his way, living as though there was nothing amiss, taking free breaths that he had no right taking. He had to do _something_...

It was on that resolve that a knocking sound roused him from his malicious reverie. Before he'd had a chance to bid, in a tone expressive of his annoyance at so rudely being interrupted, "Come in," the doors parted.

Edward sneered as he saw who it was that, with so much insolence, had dared to barge in on his royal presence. It was none other than the object of his recent thoughts -- the wayward valet, disloyal servant and then Pretender Emperor. Had the fool at last realized the mortal peril he was in? Was he come to plead for his life, to beseech mercy for himself?

But all of these suppositions were clearly misplaced, for in yet another show of irreverence, Martin declared in an imperious way, "Everyone, out -- now."

Edward stared in wonder, which was only compounded by the fact that all of the miserable, lowly, treacherous servants about him hastened to comply. Making a mental note to exact a terrible revenge on each and every one of the blackguards, he turned his wrathful attention to the wayward valet.

"How dare you?" he demanded in a shrill tone that was intended to match Martin's own commanding way. "Have you no respect? Have you not heard the new dictates? No one enters on his feet; no one stands in my presence! If you wish to approach the throne, you do it at my bidding -- and with your face to the floor, as befitting a subject."

To his eternal astonishment, the Pretender Emperor dismissed this dictate with a wave of his hand, and approached the throne, walking. "Enough, Edward," he declared. "You're taking this too far."

Sputtering with rage, the Imperial tried to form a coherent curse, or to call out for a loyal servant to do away with this Pretender. But, as treacherous as the servants had been a moment earlier, his voice failed him, drowned out by astonishment as it was.

"And don't do that, either," Martin continued. "That sputtering thing, I mean. It's too pretentious to be believable..."

Glaring and at a loss for words, so great was his rage, Edward could only listen to the insolence of his presumptuous servant.

"I want you to know," Martin told him, "that I appreciate your playing along like this...I know I sort of put you on the spot back there, and I won't forget how you went with it anyway." He hesitated, and still Edward's voice failed him. "It's just that...well, I want you to act like...you know, normal. Like I do. I know you were just having fun with Jauffre, but...he didn't take it well. So...so none of that bowing stuff, ok? And let him keep the, umm, heads. As a matter of fact, it would probably be better if you didn't give any orders at all. Ok?"

"But I'm Emperor!" Edward managed to choke out.

Martin sighed. "That's true...but I don't think she's going to expect you to just issue orders, anyway. And she'll think it's odd that you're changing all these policies out of nowhere. No, much better to leave things alone."


	199. Chapter 199

When the walls you've built coming crashing down,

And there's only the emptiness you've created all around

You understand at last what is that you've done

But too late, for everything has at last come undone.

-- Excerpt from _Reflections in the Void_

Chapter One Hundred and Ninety-Nine

Edward blinked. A wave of nausea -- and with it, understanding -- had swept him out of the blue. This wasn't a dream, and he wasn't really Emperor -- even in his head. That's why it had seemed...so real.

After realization, terror swept him. Had he -- who could only, barely, claim Martin's friendship -- so insulted and taunted Jauffre? Had he, bereft of the Imperial sanctity accorded Emperors, so enraged the single most demented and dangerous man in the entire Empire?

"Are you ok?" he heard Martin ask.

Glancing toward the voice, he felt himself shrink down in the throne. Apologies, as convoluted as his thoughts, spilled out of his mouth, and with them entreaties for protection from Jauffre.

"Edward, Edward, calm down!" Martin interrupted. "It's not a big deal -- I'm sure he knows...or he will, once I talk to him...that you were just toying with him. And I'm not mad at you -- as I said, I appreciate you helping me out like this, and I can't blame you for going overboard when I hadn't had a chance to give you any instructions or guidance."

Cringingly, Edward nodded. "How...why...?" He wanted to ask what cruel whim, what deceitful fancy had taken the king to torment him in such a way, but he could barely voice these words.

Martin seemed suddenly abashed, answering in an uncertain way, "I just need...I just didn't want her to find out who I was yet."

"Her?" Edward asked, frowning. His mind was still too burdened with fear to allow clear thinking.

"Felicity."

Edward blinked. That was right...she had been there, in the beginning of his dream. But it hadn't been a dream, had it? Wrapping his hands around his head, he slunk into the seat despairingly. It had all..._all_ been real.

"It's not...I know you think it's crazy," Martin returned apologetically, his cheeks turning crimson. "I plan to tell her the truth...but not until I...I find out why she's here."

Edward's gaze brightened at these words. "You mean...you think she might be a spy? Maybe...a Mythic Dawn agent?"

"Of course not!" Martin countered dismissively.

"Then what?" the would-be Emperor sighed, sinking once more into his dejected state.

"I just want to know why she came up here, that's all."

"She said to see you, didn't she?"

"Yes...but...well, I want to see how she reacts when she thinks I'm just...just a servant."

Edward frowned, feeling very annoyed. Was it really possible that this fool of an Emperor had just risked -- perhaps cost him -- his life for such a trivial reason? His eyebrow inching up his forehead in a show of displeasure, he snapped, "But you've always been a servant! She already knows that!"

Martin hesitated. "Yes, I know...but...well, then I was at least the Grand Champion of the arena."

Edward rolled his eyes, the remembrance of that fiasco only adding to his present discomfort.

"And, anyway, when we met then, there was never anything to compare me to."

Edward's frown returned. "You were with me!" he snapped.

"Well...well, yes...but..." Martin stammered.

"And that's comparison enough, I dare say!" Edward interrupted. "And she came to see you -- the servant -- when she could have sought out me -- the master. That spells it out pretty clearly to me."

Martin's expression lightening, he asked, "It does?"

"Of course! She's a witless bimbo, obviously."

The Emperor glared at this remark, and Edward found himself cringing again, as if from instinct. "Don't be absurd, Edward -- and don't speak of her like that!"

"Yes, my Emperor," the Imperial returned, nodding his head and sinking lower into his seat. "Whatever you say. I live but to serve you."

"Cut it out, Edward!" Martin snapped, his cheeks flaming red. "I know you think it's stupid...but...I have to see what she does when...well, when she doesn't know I'm the Emperor; when she actually has an Emperor to compare me to."

Edward sighed, his cowardice replaced with annoyance as he stomped his feet peevishly on the elevated platform on which stood his throne. "I hope you're happy!" he protested. "You've probably got me killed after what...what was said to Jauffre -- and all for this...this stupid little game?"

His cheeks still a shade of red, Martin declared, "Don't worry about that...I told you, Jauffre's fine. Just...just do what I told you -- no more orders -- and everything will be fine."

"How much longer are you going to expect me to keep this up?" Edward demanded, his tone shrill and defensive at once. "This isn't going to be easy! I didn't sign on for this! I never asked you to do anything this demeaning when I was the master!"

Martin frowned at him, and for a moment was silent. Then, sighing, he said, "Look...I'm not going to tell you, or order you, to do this...but I'm asking you...as a friend. I know it's a lot to ask, but...but I really need you to do it. Please?"

Edward sighed, stomping his feet again. As glad as he was that Martin had no idea of what he'd been thinking up until the moment he realized that he was not, in fact, Emperor, he still couldn't reconcile himself with the idea of enduring this hardship for any reason -- much less, a really stupid one. "But...pretending I'm Emperor?" he whined. "Having people bow to me? Eating first, before everyone? Having everyone salute me? Sleeping in the royal suite?"

Martin, who had been nodding as he recounted his list of woes, stopped at this last one. "Well, no actually. Felicity's going to get the royal suite."

Edward's eyes bulged. "You mean...I have to go through all of this, and I don't even get to sleep in the royal suite?"

The Emperor shook his head.

Edward loosed a wail of protest. "So I have to put up with all of this aggravation without even enjoying the perks? I suppose you'll be saying Felicity gets to choose her food first, too, now?"

"No," Martin assured him, "you'll be able to do that."

Stomping his feet, Edward demanded, "You mean, I have to eat first? I have to be the spectacle, that everyone watches, like a circus on two legs?"

Martin blinked. "I thought you wanted to? But you don't have to, if you'd prefer..."

"I don't believe this!" Edward shrieked. "I'm not pretending to be an Emperor -- I'm just assuming a different slave's role!"


	200. Chapter 200

The sun is rising on a Red Dawn

And setting on this dark world.

- Note in Mankar Camoran's journal of sermons

Chapter Two Hundred

Martin shifted nervously in place. Edward, with much coaxing and after many protests, had finally agreed to continue playing his part, albeit more reasonably. For this, at least, he was thankful; it seemed to him that his friend had very little idea how close he had come to death because of his pranks on Friar Jauffre.

Indeed, even after he'd explained to the Grandmaster that Edward had only been joking, Martin had had to hold back a second tide of fury directed at Edward - this time for humiliating the monk for sport.

"Is something wrong?" Felicity asked.

Martin started, stammering, "Huh? Oh, no...it's fine."

Frowning, she asked, "Are you sure? Is it something that soldier, Jauffre, said?"

"No, no," Martin assured her. "It really is fine. He just...he had a disagreement with the Emperor, that's all. But I managed to straighten it out."

An eyebrow raised, she asked, "Oh?"

"Yes...Edward has...a strange sense of humor sometimes. He had played a joke on Jauffre, but Jauffre didn't realize he was joking..."

"How do you know he's joking?"

"I talked to him."

"Oh."

"Like I said, it's nothing to worry about."

Felicity nodded, but her brow remained furrowed, as if lost in thought. After a moment, she turned back to him. "Martin...this might have nothing to do with you...but...you know how I said I came up here to see you?"

He nodded, trying hard to ignore the warning drumbeat his heart had suddenly begun to hammer out.

"Well, that was only half true."

"Oh?" he asked, trying to sound nonchalant.

"Yes. I mean, it was completely true - I did come up here to find you. But only half because I wanted to see you. You know, to thank you in person for...for what you did."

He nodded. "And the other half?"

Her brow furrowed again, and she spoke hesitatingly. "Martin, when you found those bandits, the ones who murdered Matthieus...are you sure you killed them all?"

This was not what he expected, although, truth to be told, he wasn't really sure what it was he expected; but this, he knew, wasn't it. "The bandits? Yes, of course. Why?"

"Because...because, ever since we heard from you, about how you killed them - through your friend, Baurus - there have been men..." She broke off, frowning. "Tell me, those bandits...they didn't...they didn't dress all in..." She shrugged. "It's going to sound crazy, but...they didn't dress in full length red robes, did they?"

Martin started in consternation at these words. "Red robes, you say?"

Felicity nodded. "I know it sounds crazy, but, the very day after Baurus brought your message, they showed up...we've seen them ever since then, watching our house, following us whenever we go anywhere. We reported it to the City Guard, but they said there's nothing they can do unless they break any laws. I think...I think they thought we were crazy."

Martin felt his face grow ashen. "You're sure?" he asked, although he knew the answer already. "And they wear red robes?"

She nodded again. "Of course. You can spot them from a mile away - even when they're hiding. At first we thought it was odd, but they're _always_ around, wherever we go - although they disappeared when we headed to the Guard headquarters. We couldn't think what it could be, except the bandits..."

Martin nodded. "Felicity, those weren't bandits...but you were right that they were there because of me."

She frowned. "But...why? Who are they?"

"They're agents from Mythic Dawn - the cult who murdered the Emperor. Uriel Septim, I mean."

Felicity's face suddenly grew as pale as he was sure his was. "Then...they started following us because they knew that Edward - the Emperor, I mean - had been there!"

Martin cleared his throat. "Basically, yes."

"Oh no! This is worse than the bandits...that means...my parents!" Her eyes were large and frightened. "I should never have left them - they could be in real danger now!"

"It's ok," Martin assured her. "I'll call Jauffre, and we'll send Blades down there, right now, to get them to safety. The best of the best - I'll personally oversee it."

"But will the Emperor agree to that?" Felicity wondered.

"What?" Martin asked. Then, quickly, he finished, "Oh, yes, of course. Don't worry about that."

She nodded, declaring, "Thank you, Martin. I'll get ready now."


	201. Chapter 201

Like little ants in a hill

Running here and running there

Men and women live their lives

Doing what they will.

- From the _Philosophy of Life,_ attributed to the ancient sages

Chapter Two Hundred and One

"Get ready?" he repeated, and the words seemed to hang in the air.

"Yes. To go back, and protect my parents!"

He shook his head. "No, Felicity, you can't! You have to stay here!"

Staring at him in wonder, she asked, "Here? While my parents could be killed?"

"You don't understand," Martin explained. "They probably followed you here; they might spring an ambush. They know you're...important...to the Emperor."

"Important?" she repeated skeptically. "To Edward?"

"That's right," Martin answered steadfastly. "And that makes you a potential target."

"Target?"

"Yes. For kidnapping, so that they have some leverage over...the Emperor."

Felicity's eyes again grew large. "Then...my parents would be targets too!"

"No!" Martin disagreed. "Well, yes, but that's what the Blades will be for!"

Shaking her head, Felicity stated. "I have to go. I'm their only child - they depend on me! I can't just leave them."

"What can you do that a group of the best soldiers in the Empire couldn't?" Martin demanded.

Felicity paused. "I...I don't know. It doesn't matter, though. I can't leave them alone. I have to be there for them."

His mind raced in accord with his heartbeat, and he found himself wondering at her obstinacy. It defied reason that one person, a civilian, could be of any assistance where the Blades could not; and yet it was not reason that prompted her. It was an emotion, and one he understood well. "Alright...but if you're going, I'm going with you," he declared resolutely.

For a moment, Felicity was still; then, she moved as of an impulse toward him, and threw her arms around his shoulders. "Thank you, Martin!"

(Several days earlier)

Baurus sighed. His meeting with Chancellor Ocato had not gone well. In fact, one might have classified it as a disaster. The Chancellor had flatly refused to send aid to his Emperor, and had challenged Baurus' credentials and reason - as well as threatened him with imprisonment. Of course, that incident had been preceded by Baurus insinuating that the Chancellor was a coward and a traitor, but...well, he was.

Now, however, he had his answer; it was time to return to Cloud Ruler Temple, unsuccessful. It wasn't, however, in the direction of the stables that Baurus' feet had headed. In fact, at the moment, he found himself outside of the Smolet's residence.

For an instant, he hesitated. He didn't really know the Smolets, outside of his mission from the Emperor...but...well, there wouldn't be anything amiss with a soldier stopping to pay his regards, would there, as he happened to be passing?

Here, he felt a twinge of conscience. _Happened_ wasn't, precisely, the most accurate term to use. He had had at least the vaguest notion of where he was headed, and at least the foggiest idea of why, when he'd started in this direction.

Still, "happened" would be the word he'd use. Drawing a deep breath, he made a final glance at his clothes to ensure that nothing was out of place or rumpled, and knocked on the door.

It was then that a figure in red caught his eye, as it scurried behind a stack of crates in a distant alley.

Baurus paused mid-knock. He had gotten only a glimpse of that figure, but it was enough. "The Mythic Dawn...here?"


	202. Chapter 202

Good things happen

And they are good.

Bad things happen

And they are bad.

- From the _Philosophy of Life,_ attributed to the ancient sages

Chapter Two Hundred and Two

His hand still raised to knock, Baurus' attention was fixed on the alley. Only when a voice sounded, "Excuse me, can I help you?" did he turn to the door.

It was held open by a man he'd never met before; however, underneath the receding hairline and careworn features, he could detect similarities to Felicity. "Mr. Smolet?"

The other man nodded. "That's correct. Who are you?" His tone seemed wary, perhaps even frightened.

As if directed by instinct, the soldier's eyes flew to the alley. There, peering from behind a stack of crates, stood the red-robed and hooded figure. "That man," Baurus asked, pointing to the Mythic Dawn agent, but turning to Mr. Smolet, "have you seen him before?"

The Breton surveyed the figure in the alley, who ducked out of sight as the two men's focus was turned to him, and then Baurus. "Who are you? What do you want?" he demanded.

The Blade could sense the fear in his voice and features, and said as calmly as possible, "My name is Baurus, sir. I am a member of the Blades. I am acquainted with your daughter, Felicity."

At this, the other man started. "Felicity? What do you mean?"

"I...I ran an errand for a friend of mine, sir. He was paying your daughter a service. You can ask her, I'm sure she remembers."

Mr. Smolet stared at Baurus thoughtfully, but said nothing.

"I think, sir, by your reaction, you have seen that man - or one dressed like him - before. He is a Mythic Dawn agent, and I fear you are in grave danger."

"Mythic Dawn? You mean, the assassins who..."

"Murdered the Emperor."

"But...what would they want with me or my family?"

"I'm afraid...I'm afraid it's my fault, sir."

Mr. Smolet stared at Baurus, and again fear began to creep into his face. "Your fault? How?"

"I am a Blade. I serve the Emperor. When I came here, I must have been spotted. So they are hoping that you - in having some connection to a Blade - can lead them to the Emperor."

"But...the Emperor is dead!"

"No sir. Emperor Uriel Septim is dead. There is another Emperor, and he is alive and well - and the Mythic Dawn knows this."

"Who?"

"Your daughter's friend, sir. Martin."

Mr. Smolet blinked. "Martin? You mean, the one who helped track down the..."

"The bandits? And recover your daughter's signet ring?"

The other man's face suddenly went very pale. "Dear gods..."

"Sir?"

"It all makes sense. And now...now she's gone in search of him - this Martin, this Emperor! We thought...we thought that these men might be connected to the bandits, and she went to find him to see if he knew anything about them..."

Baurus felt his heart sink in his chest. "When did she leave? Is it too late to stop her?" Her father's expression made clear the answer to this question. "Then, sir, we must leave at once - you, and Mrs. Smolet. We must head to Bruma, and thence to Martin. You are in grave danger, staying here - especially since I've returned."


	203. Chapter 203

Some things are funny,

And some aren't.

People tend to laugh at those that are

But not at those that aren't.

- From the _Philosophy of Life,_ attributed to the ancient sages

Chapter Two Hundred and Three

"No!" Jauffre exclaimed. "Absolutely not! The risk is far too great!"

"But I have no choice!" Martin protested. "I can't let Felicity go alone!"

"Alone?" Jauffre demanded. "I'm sending my best Blades with the silly wench!"

"What?" Felicity demanded, glancing up from adjusting her horse's saddle.

"The dear lady," Jauffre returned with an unconvincing smile.

"It's not up for discussion, Jauffre," Martin countered. "I'm going."

"I won't allow it!" the Grandmaster thundered. "I won't have you committing suicide over this!"

"It's not your choice to make," Martin answered resolutely.

"It's not yours, either, sir!" Jauffre declared, equally as resolutely. "You've no business rushing off and getting yourself killed when the Empire-"

"Jauffre!" Martin interrupted warningly.

The Grandmaster glanced at Felicity, and suddenly a pleased light entered his eyes. Raising his eyebrows in a significant way, he gestured discreetly at the girl. "I'll tell her," he mouthed.

Shaking his head, Martin mouthed, "Don't you dare!"

"You leave me no choice, sir," Jauffre countered.

"_I_ have no choice," Martin contradicted.

"Yes you have!" Jauffre roared, adding in a meek tone, "Sir. If you're determined to harass my men with another non-soldier, send Edward, or someone else disposable!"

At these words, Felicity glanced up, asking in surprise, "The Emperor?"

Martin's cheeks flushed, and he glared at Jauffre. "That's just...well, Friar Jauffre's sense of humor. Isn't it, Jauffre?"

Despite the pointed glare with which the Emperor fixed the soldier as he uttered this query, the implication seemed lost on Jauffre. "Is it, sir?" he asked, his face blank as he stared forward, unmoved.

"Of course it is!" Martin snapped, turning furtive eyes to Felicity. "He's just..."

It was, no doubt, her expression that silenced him, for her eyes made clear the fact that she knew that something was amiss.

"Oh!" Jauffre gasped, as if a sudden epiphany had come to him, "Of course, sir! I didn't realize you meant...that is, whatever you say, sir."

"You call him 'sir'," Felicity observed, indicating Martin, "and Edward 'disposable'?" Her eyes colored with suspicion."What's going on here, Martin?"

"N-n-nothing," the young man, his face flushed with embarrassment and fury at Jauffre, stammered. "I told you, Jauffre just has a stupid sense of -"

"No," she interrupted, shaking her head. "It's not possible...I knew it wasn't possible! That fool - that pompous oaf - could never be Emperor. It's - it's you!" This last flash of understanding was accompanied by an expression to match the surprise in her voice. "That's why he - Jauffre, I mean - won't let you go; and why he calls you sir; and...and..." She broke off, staring hard at Martin. "And why they - those men, the Mythic Dawn - are watching my parents' house! Because you - you! - are Emperor!"

Martin tried to call up words to deny the accusation, but he knew they were no use; she knew, and nothing he could say would convince her otherwise. Besides, Jauffre's self-satisfied grin was as good a giveaway as anything - if indeed a giveaway was actually needed. "I...that is...I'm afraid so."

Her eyes flashing with what could only be anger, she demanded, "Then why did you lie to me? Do you think this is funny? My parents could be dead, and you're playing charades?"

Martin blinked in the face of her fury. Reproofs were the last thing he expected; indeed, one hardly imagined that someone, upon learning the identity of her Emperor, would begin to berate him for wrongs. "I'm...sorry."

"You should be!" she snapped.

Clearing his throat, Jauffre interrupted. "Not to put to fine a point on it, ma'am...but, as he _is_ Emperor, perhaps you might consider moderating your tone to one of...oh, I don't know...respect? Deference?"

Turning flashing eyes on the soldier, Felicity scoffed. "Emperor be hanged!" she snorted. "He's playing games while my parents are in danger, and that is just...just unpardonable!"

"Ma'am," Jauffre interrupted, his own tone becoming serious and reproving, "it is an Emperor's prerogative -"

Her eyes taking on a passion at least the equivalent of the soldier's, she declared icily, "It's an Emperor's duty to protect his citizens, _sir_ - not to laugh while they're imperiled!"

"Felicity, I wasn't laughing," Martin spoke up at last. "I just..."

"Just?" she prompted, as he trailed off.

"I just...well, didn't want to tell you yet. And then, when I learned your parents were in trouble...I didn't want to waste the time explaining. But it wasn't...I never meant to make light of their peril."


	204. Chapter 204

Wheresoever you would run, you will find that you could also walk

Your destination remains the same, though it takes you longer to get there.

Good to know when going to work, less important when heading home to supper.

– From the _Philosophy of Life,_ attributed to the ancient sages

Chapter Two Hundred and Four

Felicity stared at Martin, feeling her anger seeping away. How much of her reaction had been genuine anger, and how much had been an ugly manifestation of fear, she wasn't sure. She knew that she was hurt by Martin's lie, although she didn't know exactly why; the idea that he might have been making sport of her was particularly incensing. But, at the same time, she felt a terrible, overwhelming fear for her parents' safety; it had certainly been fear that prompted her to reprimand the Emperor - "_The Emperor!_" she thought, aghast at her own stupidity - as well as his Grandmaster of the Blades. All she had felt, at that moment was...well, a combination of things. Fear, hurt, fury, and more fear.

She didn't understand Martin's reasoning for lying to her, but his eyes told her that it was not malice. They even hinted at something else; something silly and almost charming. But now...now she didn't have time to think what, or why. She only knew that her parents might already be dead - and that every second she delayed was another second in which the Mythic Dawn could strike, and she would be nowhere in sight, unable to protect those she loved.

"I have to go," she declared. "I need to make sure my parents are alright." This said, she moved to mount her horse.

But Martin's impulsive move forward stopped her, and she found her feet returning to the ground as the Emperor's hand took hold of one side of her horse's bridle. "Listen, Felicity," he said, "I know you're afraid. I can't stop you from going. I mean, I could but...but I can't..." He broke off, frowning. She stared at him, surprised by the sudden change - from sheepish apologizer to this...this serious, ardent man before her. "But I will go with you if you go."

She blinked. She had been grateful for his offer of assistance before; but now? Well, he was the Emperor! "You...you have to stay here," she countered. "Where the Blades can see that you're safe."

"Exactly so," Friar Jauffre, standing a little to the side, but his eyes ever on the pair, agreed. "The lady is exactly right, my liege."

Martin shook his head. "If you really don't believe that these soldiers can handle it, then I will go with you too."

"You...you can't!" she found herself saying in a half convinced sort of way. "They're my parents; I have to go. But you are Emperor; you must stay here!"

"It's an Emperor's duty to protect his citizens," Martin repeated.

She felt her cheeks flush. "That's not...I spoke in anger. It's not an Emperor's duty to imperil his life over...over two people." It was a hard thing to say, but she knew it was true. "You have a duty to the entire Empire - without you, without the Dragon Fires lit, who knows what will happen?"

Martin shook his head again. "No...I can't...I can't let you go by yourself."

"I won't be by myself!" Felicity contradicted, feeling her annoyance return. Martin was being unreasonable, and she couldn't understand why; and the thought of him putting himself in harm's way - when so much depended on him - filled her with fresh alarm. "Jauffre's sending Blades with me!"

Martin shook his head. "No, it's not enough," he declared. "It's bad enough that they're after you and your family because of me; here, you're safe...but I can't stay while go back into danger - danger that I brought upon you!"

"You didn't bring it upon me!" Felicity snapped; then, her tone taking on a more reasonable note, she continued, "And I can't in good conscience allow you to risk your life by coming."

Clearing his throat, Jauffre interrupted, "Well, my lord and lady, it would appear that the common sense solution - and one that will please us all - is if _neither_ of you go!"

"What?" the pair demanded in unison.

"That's right - you both stay here. As I said earlier, I'm sending my best men on this goose chase...err, this highly important business...there's no need for you two to go muddling it all up, is there now?"

"But they're my parents!" Felicity protested.

"They're only in danger because of me!" Martin objected.

Jauffre sighed in that deep, throaty growl that indicated annoyance. "Sir, and ma'am, with all due respect, you're not thinking reasonably. There is nothing on the Divine's green -"

At that moment, however, the Grandmaster was interrupted by the opening of the Great Hall gates, and the emergence of Edward. Jauffre's face turned a sudden, hellish hue, and his jaw clenched visibly.

For his part, the young Imperial was walking with an air of great pomposity, and even greater disdain. He saw at once the assembled figures, and headed toward them, head held high.

"Ah! My good servants – almost friends, I might say. Although, of course, in Martin's case, he's still a servant. My dear lady, you've no idea – what friendships we've established. Unbelievable. You would never guess that some of us were subjects and another an Emperor, you know!"

Martin cleared his throat. "Edward, she -"

"No, no, I'm serious – before I realized my lineage, back when he and I traveled together...like brothers, you know. And even – especially! – Friar Jauffe...why, what a bond we've formed in our short acquaintance, haven't we, Jauffre my friend?"

But here, the Pretender was cut off; for the good Grandmaster, his patience at last at an end, had thrown himself upon Edward, not wildly as an inexperienced fighter might do, but with the skill and passion of a provoked warrior. His blows landed not haphazardly, but with furious intent. Fortunately for Edward, the intent was to cause as much suffering as possible before the inevitable finishing off; and more fortunately for Edward, Martin and several passing Blades were able to intervene, though only just, before that strike came.

A panting, still struggling, Jauffre, was pulled to one side, but not before he'd delivered a final, and decidedly painful, kick to Edward's posterior; and the Pretender Emperor, sniveling, bleeding and shaking, all amidst screams of protest and agony, was pulled to his feet on the other.

Jauffre, his hair tussled and a savage look in his eye, watched, and an expression of satisfaction crossed his face as he did so. Pulling free from those who restrained him, he stood back; his moment of rage had passed, and he had now to enjoy the handiwork it had wrought.

Edward, however, was not enjoying that handiwork; rather, he was, through the blood that flowed freely and the tears that flowed almost as freely, demanding, "Kill him! Make him suffer! Owww! Where's a doctor? Help! Help your Emperor! I'll have all of your heads for this, for allowing that brute - Oww! You'll pay, by the gods, I swear you'll pay!"

Felicity, meanwhile, had witnessed all of this, and was rather stunned by it. Only Edward's incessant whining roused her from her state of surprise; then, she felt compelled to assist. "Here, let me through," she insisted, pushing through the crowd assembled about the whiner. "I know some healing spells that would be -"

"You!" Edward snapped, still shrieking in pain. "Get out of here! Stay away from me, vixen!"

"Be quiet, you fool," Felicity told him. "I can help you!"

"I'd sooner die than be aided by one of your kind," Edward wailed.

"A Breton?" Felicity asked, standing back in annoyance at this remark.

"A woman!" the Imperial countered, his eyes flashing. "And, yes, now that you mention, a filthy peasant as well! I've seen what your kind is capable of; you've played me the fool too many times! You probably plan to murder me - and you must think this show of supposed kindness will stay my hand, and spare you from execution, and my just wrath. Well, it won't!"

Shaking her head, Felicity sighed. It was clear that the beating had taken a toll on Edward's fragile senses. Therefore, ignoring his contradictory whining, she recited the incantation for a spell she knew; and, all at once, Edward collapsed to the ground in a heap. A silent heap, at that. Felicity smiled.


	205. Chapter 205

Such a grand idea, to disturb the hive

So much fun, to torment the bees

The child learns, albeit painfully

That it's not as fun as he thinks.

- An excerpt from a piece translated in the scholarly work "_Writings of Old, Dead People_"

Chapter Two Hundred and Five

Edward blinked once, and then twice, into the bright afternoon light. He felt a steady throbbing of his head, and knew at once that he was awake. "_Oh Oblivion!_" he cursed to himself. His dream had been a very nice one - until it suddenly took such a...mad...turn. He frowned, and pain spiked through his head as he did so. What a very odd phantasmagoria that had been; one minute, he'd been Emperor, and the next...near death. One second, Jauffre had been the cringing slave he'd always wanted to see; and the next, the violent, raving lunatic that he unfortunately was. One moment, Martin had done as he was bid; and the next, he had dared to address him by his real name.

Edward glared at the ceiling, ignoring the flood of pain that washed over him with this movement of his facial features. Even in his dreams, the miserable Emperor was as much of a blackguard as he was in real life; even there, he couldn't just allow a poor, unfortunate to, for once, come out ahead. No, it was always - always - necessary to best him, to throw him from any height to the greatest depth. Gods, but he hated Martin!

"Is the pain that bad?" a familiar - and loathed - voice asked, and Edward nearly leaped out of his bed in fear.

"_Thank the gods I kept that last thought to myself_," he mused as he turned to see Martin and Felicity at his bedside. "What?"

"The pain...your face...it looked...terrible," Martin explained. "Don't worry, Felicity is working on a pain reliever."

"Pain reliever?" Edward asked. Then, he realized, he was in an inexplicable amount of pain.

"You're lucky, old boy," Martin whispered confidentially. "I think...well, I do believe Jauffre intended...that is, it crossed his mind for a moment or two to...well, you know." This was followed by an expression apparently meant to indicate death.

Edward stared in wonder. "What?"

"Oh dear," Felicity declared. "He doesn't remember it."

"Remember what?" Edward demanded.

"You...well, you played rather an...an ill received joke on Friar Jauffre," Martin explained. "And he..."

"Pounded the snot out of you," Felicity finished matter-of-factly.

Edward cringed. That, at least, explained the latter portion of his dream; no doubt he was dreaming as he was unconscious, and his mind - aware of what had just taken place - mixed his fantasy with the unpleasant reality. "Why?" Edward asked. As hard as tried, he couldn't think of a single thing that would be funny enough to tempt him to provoke Jauffre. "Was I...drunk?"

"He seems to have lost all recollection," Felicity frowned.

"No, Edward, you weren't drunk," Martin explained, his expression suddenly becoming very pensive. "I'm afraid...well, it was my fault, I fear. You see, we were...well, obscuring the real identity of the Emperor. That is, me."

"What he's saying," Felicity broke in, "is that he lied about being Emperor, and said it was you."

Edward recoiled in horror. "You mean..." he gasped. "That was...real?"

"Quite," Martin nodded.

His eyes taking on an expression of fear demonstrative of what he felt, he cringed backwards. "I thought...I thought was all just a dream..."

"I'm not surprised," Felicity nodded. "After the beating Jauffre gave you, you probably _wanted_ to relegate that episode to the realm of dreams."

Gulping, Edward nodded slowly. His first instinct had been to disagree; but now, reflecting on the matter, it seemed the wisest course of action. After all, he couldn't let anyone know that, if given absolute power, he would behave in such an absolutely tyrannical way. "I was just...it was just a lark," he explained feebly.

"We know," Martin nodded. "I mean, perhaps a tad-bit overdone, but it's over with now."

"Yes," Edward agreed hastily. "I meant to...to amuse you."

Martin nodded. "We know, Edward."

"Here," Felicity directed, extending a cup of a sweet smelling brew. "Drink this. It will help with the pain, and heal you."


	206. Chapter 206

I think, therefore I am;

I think I think, therefore I think I am

You think I think, therefore you think I am.

I think you think I think, therefore I think you think I am.

– From the _Philosophy of Life,_ attributed to the ancient sages

Chapter Two Hundred and Six

Fast approaching riders drew the attention of the assembled Blades, and a call from the look out of "Sir Baurus! Open the gates for Sir Baurus!" brought everyone to the gates.

A moment later, crashing of hooves on the stone of the inner courtyard sounded, and the aforementioned Blade, and two strange companions, appeared. "I must see the Emperor!" Sir Baurus called out; and, immediately, men began to open the doors to the interior of the fortress.

A moment later, as Baurus was sprinting up the stairs, Martin himself – no doubt summoned by the noise – emerged.

"My lord!" Baurus greeted, falling to one knee. "My lord, I bring bad news. The Smolets, Sir – they've been targeted by the Mythic Dawn. I've brought Mr. and Mrs. Smolet with me, as I dared not leave them in the Dawn's grasp, but Felicity – that is, Miss Smolet – had already left to find you. And we didn't see her along the way...and then, when we stopped in Bruma, the guard reported seeing her leave with a strange, sinister man; and she was never spotted coming back."

At that moment, Felicity emerged. "Martin? What is it?" Then, seeing Baurus, she greeted, "Sir Baurus! What's the matter?"

The Blade's face expressed his surprise, as did his words. "Miss Smolet! What are you doing here? That is, how did you get here?"

"Grandmaster Jauffre found me. But what are you doing here?"

"I brought Mr. and Mrs. Smolet – that is, your parents."

Felicity's eyes lit up. "You did? Then, they're alive? They're alright?"

"Yes Miss," Baurus nodded.

"Felicity!" a voice called, and – at it's sound – the young woman flew down the stairs.

"Mother!"

Martin nodded for Baurus to rise, and they both descended the stairs following Felicity.

"Then it's true!" a graying man – doubtlessly, Mr. Smolet – declared. "What that man, the soldier, was saying? About the Mythic Dawn? And an Emperor?"

"Yes, father. But how...how...did you get here? I was so worried!" There were tears in her eyes as she spoke, and she had took turns hugging first her mother and then her father.

"He – the soldier – brought us. He saw the Mythic Dawn, and he recognized them."

"You mean, Baurus?"

"That's right."

Felicity, tears still in her eyes, turned to the Blade. "Sir Baurus!" she told him. "I don't know how I can ever thank you...you have no idea..." She seemed at a loss for words.

"I was glad to be of assistance, ma'am," Baurus replied, seeming both humble and proud at the same moment.

Impulsively, Felicity darted forward and wrapped her arms around the soldier. "Thank you!"

He stammered a little, assuring her that she was welcome; then, after she let go, he hastily introduced Mr. and Mrs. Smolet to the Emperor; and his dark cheeks seemed to glow a little more than usual as he did so.


	207. Chapter 207

I fill my empty pockets

That I may fill my empty glass

And when I've emptied my full glass

My full pockets are now empty.

- Excerpt from _Curiosities of a Drunkard's Life _

Chapter Two Hundred and Seven

"How charming," Jauffre forced himself to say. "Now we can look forward to the pleasure of not one, but three Smolets."

Martin nodded. "It is good, isn't it? It should liven things up a bit...you know, a break from crusty soldiers, and Docada's poets, and Edward's...junkies."

Jauffre's grimace deepened. "How charming," he repeated, his tone sounding anything but charmed.

Martin, too lost in his own thoughts to even take note, nodded a second time. "Yes...now, about the Smolets' sleeping arrangements...I know where her parents are going to sleep, but where do you think we should put Felicity?"

Jauffre tried hard to suppress a grin. For all his annoying habits, Martin was as much an Emperor as the next Septim. "Well, sir, there's a little bedroom off the Royal Suite..."

"Is there?" Martin asked.

"Yes, sir," Jauffre nodded. "We don't use it much, as it has direct access to the Septim bedchamber."

"Oh," Martin nodded. "Why?"

"Well, sir, I believe in the past, the Emperors used it as a discreet access for their...lady friends."

"Oh," Martin answered again, seeming somewhat taken aback. That was not, apparently, the answer he had excepted.

"But I think that it would do very nicely for her...perfectly, in fact."

"Really? Why?"

"Because, sir, it has direct access to the Septim bedchamber," Jauffre replied, with a knowing smile that caused Martin to go bright red to the roots of his hair.

"Friar Jauffre!"

"Sir?" Jauffre asked with a comic degree of innocence, given the circumstances.

"Your implication was not funny," Martin told him, the crimson slowly ebbing out of his cheeks.

"Implication, sir? I implied nothing. I simply noted its proximity to the royal bedchamber."

"No you didn't, you were...you..."

"Yes, my lord?"

Martin was flushing again. "Nevermind!" he snapped. "It doesn't matter. The room will do fine."

"Yes, my lord," Jauffre agreed, his knowing smile returning.

"You're doing it again!" Martin snapped.

"What, my lord?" Jauffre inquired, feigning innocence yet again.

"That...that smirk!"

"Am I?"

"Yes. And I know what you're thinking. But you're absolutely wrong, Jauffre."

"Of course, sir," the monk nodded, his smirk returning despite his best efforts.

"You may as well know," Martin continued, his tone displaying some degree of aggravation, "that I've already instructed that the royal suite be made ready for Felicity's parents...that is, Mr. and Mrs. Smolet."

Jauffre felt his jaw drop.

"And I am moving to a room off the side of the barracks," he continued.

For a moment, the monk wondered if he'd dislocated his lower jaw, as it had dropped so far. "Smolets...royal suite? Relocated...to the...barracks?" he managed to wheeze out.

Martin nodded.


	208. Chapter 208

Lo, see you now

The barbarian hordes knocking at the gate

Egad, but what horror

At just the sight of these unwashed primitives.

-_ A Gentleman's Lament_

Chapter Two Hundred and Eight

Edward closed his eyes and sighed. The barbarians kept coming, didn't they? First Docada and his followers, and now the Smolet clan. He shivered in disgust. Bretons. He couldn't stand Bretons. In fact, he'd never met a single Breton that he could tolerate. "_And,_" he wondered, "_what is it with that stupid Emperor, and being so concerned about the Breton wench?_" 'The Breton wench' of whom Edward was thinking, of course, was Felicity, for the Imperial - with everyone else - had noticed his Emperor's interest in her. He shivered again. Yes, once or twice, and against his better judgment, he had condescended to flirting with a Breton; but they had all proved themselves to be the unworthy barbarians he had known them to be. And, as much as he would like to see Martin get what he deserved, he didn't like to think of his retribution coming at the hands of this unworthy Breton woman. Not that he cared what happened to the Emperor, of course. He just didn't like the fact that Martin's interest in the Breton would - could only - be beneficial to her; and she had snubbed him at their first meeting. "_Although,_" he reasoned, "_he really does deserve a nitwit like her._" The idea had merit, so he pondered it for a few moments. At the end of this conjecture, he shrugged, as if debating with himself the pros and cons of his Emperor's interest in a barbarian.

On the one side, it could only mean advantage - temporary, at least - to the barbarian. On the other, though, it was certain to entail hardship and heartache for the bastard emperor - as barbarians, he was quite sure, were incapable of real affection. And, then, of course, if Martin had a brain in that empty head of his, he would deal with the barbarian as she deserved; as Emperor, he certainly had that power, although whether he would exercise it or not seemed less certain. Edward frowned in pleased thought as he went over the scenario again. It seemed unthinkable that even such a silly sap as Martin would let the barbarian get away with using him and breaking his heart - which she would surely do; so, the likely course of events would be something like a bastard's broken heart and a barbarian's severed head, in that order.

Edward smiled. Suddenly, the barbarian invasion wasn't such a terrible thing; after all, it wasn't bound to last too long, and it would provide good sport - and better revenge - for him. Even Friar Jauffre, Edward mused, would probably end up pleased...it would mean more heads for his collection, wouldn't it? Felicity's, certainly, and possibly - hopefully - her parents as well.

Edward had reached exactly this point in his malicious reverie when Friar Jauffre walked out of the keep, breathing unevenly, as though something had greatly annoyed him. The younger Imperial started as the latest subject of his contemplations stepped into view. "Fr-friar Jauffre," he stammered. Even when, as now, he _wasn't_ thinking hateful thoughts about the old man, the Grandmaster's presence still struck terror into his heart – nonetheless so for the beating he'd received not so long ago at the old man's hands.

Jauffre glared at him. "What?"

"N-nothing."

Jauffre growled at him, but stared into the mountains outside Cloud Ruler Temple with such malice in his eyes that Edward was half amazed that the rock didn't fall to pieces beneath his gaze. Shivering, the younger Imperial looked away. "_At least_," he thought, "_it's not me he's still mad at_." Beyond that selfless observation, Edward couldn't really care less what offended the monk.

"Barbarians!" Jauffre cursed.

This exclamation, though he tried to ignore it, was too similar too his own thoughts of late to prevent Edward from stealing a wary glance at his uninvited companion. "Barbarians?" he repeated, timidly.

"Yes!" Jauffre snapped. "Those damned Smolets!"

Edward nodded. He hated when he agreed with the deranged monk, but, at the moment, he sympathized wholeheartedly. "I know," he nodded. "If we keep letting these damned barbarians in, we won't have to worry about the Daedra...it won't be safe inside the fortress!"

Jauffre nodded. "This lot is especially bad," he informed Edward. "Do you know what they've done now?"

Edward shook his head. He imagined - gleefully, if the truth was to be told - that the Bretons had made the mistake of snubbing Jauffre, as the girl had him; that, of course, would be at least as dangerous as crossing the Emperor. The Emperor - fool that he was - had a conscience and operated by some outdated sense of principles or morals; Jauffre had no such self-imposed restrictions. In fact, Jauffre often operated just that side of "legal"; and he had shown that he had no compunction at crossing the line whenever necessary, by his standards at least. So, Edward waited expectantly to hear some tale or another of foolishly misplaced pride.

Jauffre shook his head darkly, and growled again. "They've weaseled their way into the Emperor's confidence such that he's given up the royal suite - the royal suite! - for their use."

This was not what Edward expected, and, for a moment, it floored him. "The...royal suite?" he demanded. The idea was beyond preposterous. Barbarians, in the suite reserved for the Emperor? Insolent Bretons, sleeping where only the noblest of Imperials was ever meant to recline? It was bad enough that the bastard Emperor lay his ignoble head there...but to think that the barbarous scalps of unwashed Bretons now soiled and profaned the royal chamber where once had slept the greatest and noblest of Imperial Emperors... Edward shook his head in disgust. He actually pitied Uriel Septim for all the disgrace his son had brought upon him with this one act - and, if there was one rule by which Edward lived his life, it was his determination never to pity those born to unlimited wealth, grand palaces, and unfettered privilege. But this, this refutation of all his father had stood for, this slap in the face of Emperors - and Imperials - as a whole, caused Edward, for a mere moment, to violate this guiding principle, and shake his head in consternation at what Martin had done.

"I know," Jauffre nodded, his tone very grave. "Unbelievable."


	209. Chapter 209

Hear ye, hear ye -

It is hereby decreed that all visitors and residents of Cloud Ruler Temple shall be required to bathe on a regular basis, no less than one bath a week, and as needed, at their discretion. This measure will reduce disease and discomfort and improve the air quality and living conditions of all residents.

Violators will be taken and scrubbed down in the public bath.

-Reading of the first Imperial Decree issued by Emperor Martin Septim to the inhabitants, temporary and permanent, of Cloud Ruler Temple

Chapter Two Hundred and Nine

The elder barbarians had settled in for the night in the royal suite, whilst their barbarian spawn had retreated to her own quarters. Jauffre was staring at the darkness of the ceiling overhead his bunk, for sleep had proved elusive thus far. The fact of the matter was, of course, he was worried. Very worried. The Emperor's behavior of late had been so irrational, so foolhardy, that an idea that had once been only the vaguest of suspicions was now nagging at his mind.

Was it possible? he wondered. But, no, the Emperor could not be that insane! It was unthinkable! And yet, here he was, thinking it.

The Grandmaster growled into the blackness around him. "_Gods, man,_" he thought, "_you're an Imperial! An Emperor! You don't fall in love with...with barbarians!_"

Initially, Martin's feelings - obvious as they were - had not concerned him. He had seen Emperors smitten before with the charms of this woman or that, but it always came to naught. Emperors were wont to amuse themselves with the company of eager young women, and, if they were Imperials, sometimes they married them...but this... He frowned deeply at the very thought. This was something unlike what he'd seen before. This, he feared, was more than a passing obsession, a fleeting passion.

Jauffre sighed again. Surely the gods could not be so cruel, he thought. Had he not done everything in his power to make a proper Emperor of the boy? How could they take all of his hard work, and so destroy it?

"_If only,_" he thought, "_I hadn't hesitated on the mountainside._" He was thinking, of course, of when he'd almost killed Felicity. "_Even if it had cost me my life...I'm a soldier...it's a soldier's greatest honor to lay down his life for the sake of his Emperor._" To Jauffre's mind, there was not the slightest contradiction between being executed for killing the Emperor's lover (in this case) and otherwise sacrificing his life for the Emperor's sake; either way, he thought, he would be dying to serve his king...even if his king was too blind to see the truth of his sacrifice.

Just as Jauffre was imagining himself valiantly mounting the steps to the execution block, a somber, masked executioner awaiting him, a pike ready to accept his own head, a knock on his door roused him from his morbid reverie. Barking out a command to enter, Jauffre squinted as flickering wisps of light disrupted the perfect blackness in which he was enveloped. He growled again.

"Sir!" A high voice preceded a youngish face.

"What?" Jauffre demanded. He recognized the voice as well as the face. It was a junior officer, a Sir Julius, that he'd stationed in the midlands. He couldn't, at the moment, remember what it was he was supposed to be doing, but he was quite sure that it was _not_ interrupting his midnight reflections.

"The worst has happened, sir, as you feared," the young officer declared cryptically.

Jauffre frowned into the glimmering light of the torch the other man held. "What?" At the moment, he could think of little worse than a pair of barbarians invading the royal quarters - and at the Emperor's request, no less.

"The Emperor's parents, sir," Julius explained.

Then, it hit Jauffre like a flash of lightning. That's what he'd sent this young idiot to do, wasn't it? Guard the Emperor's family! "You mean...?"

"The Mythic Dawn discovered their whereabouts, sir."

Juaffre gulped. Suddenly, he regretted leaving this task in the hands of a junior officer...especially when he had assured the Emperor that he had his "best men" on the job. "You don't mean...that is, they're not..."

"Oh, no sir!" Julius hurriedly assured him. "They're unharmed. However..." Here, he hesitated and shifted nervously.

"Yes?" the Grandmaster demanded, in no mood to play guessing games.

"However, sir, I had to bring them here...and I fear that we were...that is, we might have been..."

"Yes?"

"Followed, sir."

Jauffre glared at him. It wasn't the fact that the Mythic Dawn now knew of their hiding place...between Felicity, and Baurus' rescue of her parents - to say nothing of Edward's idiotic revelations to Mankar Camoran - that was pretty much assured. It was just that this was yet another failure, piled onto a day of failures and disappointments.

"I'm sorry, sir," the young Imperial stammered. "It's just...I was afraid to delay lest the Dawn overtake us...and I thought that..."

"Yes, yes," Jauffre snapped, pulling himself fully out of his rack. "Don't blubber, boy! What's done is done. Now, where are they?"

"They're waiting in the northwest hall, sir. I have Sir Baurus standing guard over them."

"Good," Jauffre nodded as he pulled on attire more fitting to meet the Emperor's parents than his nightclothes. When he was finished, he said, "Lead the way."

The younger man nodded, and turned quickly to do as he was bid. Jauffre followed, equally as quickly. He wore a scowl as he walked, and his thoughts were no more pleasant than his expression. This was a very bad turn of events. Certainly, it was good in the respect that the Emperor's parents hadn't died while under his protection; in all other respects, however, it was a catastrophe. It was bad enough to have to contend with the influence of one clan of barbarians over the Emperor; now there would be two. And, while it was true that the Emperor's mother was herself an Imperial, she had stooped to marry a barbarian, and that was pretty much the same thing as, if not worse than, being one. Indeed, she hadn't chosen just any barbarian, but a Dunmer – a Dunmer! – while she was at it.

Jauffre's scowl deepened. By nature, he mused, he wasn't a hateful man. He didn't hold it against a good man that he was born a barbarian. Indeed, as it was, some of his best friends were barbarians. But a Dunmer? The idea was so vile, so repulsive, that he shivered. Not even a man of his liberality and open mindedness could stomach the notion; there was no good to be found in Dunmer, or elves in general. He had never got to know Martin's step-father, but there simply was no need. He was a Dunmer; and Dunmer were Dunmer.

With this monumental thought came another. It was no wonder that Martin abandoned all sense in the light of barbarian charms, was it, when one considered his mother's abominable transgressions? Why would he hesitate to take a barbarian lover – or, he shivered at the thought, wife – when his mother had herself chosen the lowest of the low to be his step-father?

"They're in here, sir," Julius declared, rousing him from his thoughts.

Jauffre nodded. They were outside the hall. "Good. Go, and wake the Emperor. Inform him that his parents are here."

The young man nodded and left. Jauffre gritted his teeth, knocked, and entered the room.


	210. Chapter 210

Beware the crafty fox,

When he volunteers to guard the chicken pen

Beware the clever wolf

As he watches over the sheep barn...

- An excerpt from a piece translated in the scholarly work "_Writings of Old, Dead People_"

Chapter Two Hundred and Ten

Martin raced toward the room where the Blade had left his parents. He hadn't seen them in years...not since they had sent him to Friar Jauffre's monastery. Then they had told him that it was financial concerns that prompted them to send him away – away to a place where he could learn, and earn a better life for himself. He had understood their rationale, but it had pained him at the time; he would rather have been poor and with them than otherwise and without them. Then, after the studying fiasco and his failure to retain employment, he had been too ashamed to show his face to them. Now, however, everything made sense; they had sent away because they had to, and not out of pecuniary considerations. And his departure was probably at least as painful for them as it had been for him.

Opening the door with hands that, to his surprise, shook, Martin stepped into the hall. And, there, at the far end, they stood.

Uvren Norvayne, his father, tall, proud and weathered by years of hard work, wore a worried expression in his flame-red eyes as he stood near his mother, Rusia Norvayne, whose own lighter brow was knit into an expression that matched her husband's. Martin froze at the sight, and fought a lump that grew in his throat. He was no longer Martin Norvayne; he was Martin Septim. His father's name was no longer his own; his mother's name was no longer his own. Instead, he bore the name of a man he'd never known – and, if Jauffre's description was accurate, he should not have liked very much if he had.

It seemed as if he had somehow been cut off from these people, this man he'd called father and his mother, who were the only family he had ever known; as if that change of name robbed him of his family.

And, as they turned to the sound of the doors grating opened, he could see it in their eyes as well. He was one of them, once; now he was someone else, a combination of a stranger as well as a son. That distance, reflected across so short a physical space as separated them, seared his heart.

"Ma..Martin!" Rusia declared, fumbling as she alternated between heading toward her son and curtsying respectfully.

His father was not so torn between courses of action as she, for he bowed. "Your highness." The man who had been his father all his life was now a common Dunmer bowing before his Emperor.

Martin choked back tears as he advanced toward them, calling in the Dunmer tongue his father had taught him, "Mother, Father!"

He could see the nervous apprehension in his father's eyes, but it was less than it had been a moment before, and tempered with a parent's love. For Rusia's part, her eyes were brimming with tears.

Martin threw his arms around both of them, and wrapped them in a powerful embrace. For a few moments, he did not speak; not because there was nothing to say...there was. He just wasn't sure if his voice would be steady enough to say it.

Jauffre growled under his breath. He had done everything he could to distance the Emperor from his misguided affections toward these lesser personages...and this is what became of his efforts.

Though he hated to admit it, he feared that the boy's low beginnings and lowly early attendants had permanently affected his good sense. He seemed to be utterly lacking that guiding Septim sense of superiority and regality that firmly and unalterably set up barriers between people like these and Emperors. If Martin was his father, Jauffre knew, these people would be largely hidden, paid enough to live a relatively decent life and stay out of his hair - and any one else's sight. These people, common farmers, would have been a disgrace to him - and any proper nobleman. The Dunmer certainly, but even Rusia. She had been a woman of low nobility, with little but her looks and the fossilized pretensions of a line that was once worthwhile to recommend her. Now, she was nothing more than a Dunmer's wife...a farmer's wife...

For all that, though, there was a single good aspect to this whole unsettling attachment...it meant ousting the unwashed carcasses of the presumptuous Breton clan from the royal chambers in favor of Martin's parents. As much as he hated the idea of a Dunmer soiling the royal bedchamber with his ignoble presence, he at least had a claim, no matter how specious, to the royal family – he was married to the Emperor's mother. The Smolets, however, had not even such a spurious claim to royal privilege; and the fact that they betook of it irked the monk to no end. Therefore, driven by the desire to oust the pretentious newcomers as soon as possible, Jauffre spoke.

"Shall I see that the Lord and Lady's chambers are made ready, my lord?" he inquired very politely of Martin.

The Emperor glanced over at these words; it was with everything in him that Jauffre stopped from grimacing at the sight of glistening tears in the other man's eyes. "What?"

"Shall I see that the Lord and Lady's chambers are made ready, my lord?" he repeated. "I am assuming they are staying here, as it would not be safe elsewhere?"

"Oh, yes," Martin nodded. "Thank you, Jauffre."

"My pleasure, my lord," the monk nodded, fighting the smile that toyed with the corners of his mouth.


	211. Chapter 211

Victory is sweetest

When it has been long in the making.

- An excerpt from a piece translated in the scholarly work "_Writings of Old, Dead People_"

Chapter Two Hundred and Eleven

"But...but sir, the Emperor..." the Blade stammered.

Jauffre glared at him. "These are the Emperor's orders! These chambers are to made ready for his parents. At once!"

"His parents?" the other man repeated, astonished. "Yes, sir. Right away, sir."

"Good."

Jauffre smiled to himself. Well, that was that. The Emperor - whatever his feelings for the Smolet female - would never think of putting his own parents in sub par quarters. And it would be good to show the Bretons that there was a significant distance between them and the throne - so significant, in fact, that they would be ousted from their beds in the middle of the night so that a Dunmer with a tenuous at best claim to privilege could replace them. The idea made Jauffre smirk openly.

He heard the clamor of soldiers' feet and the heavy knocking on the Smolets' doors as he walked away, and his grin grew positively devilish.

Returning to the hall in which were Martin and his parents, he knocked, waited until he received a summons to enter, and entered. "My lord!" he declared, bowing to Martin. "What you commanded has been done. Your parents rooms will be ready momentarily."

"Thank you, Jauffre," the Emperor nodded.

"My pleasure, my lord."

Felicity Smolet gaped as the soldiers herded her and her parents, barefooted and wrapped only in night robes, into the sprawling structure. Her feet were icy, having had to cross the frozen courtyard to get to this dubious shelter, and she could still feel the frigid mountain wind whipping into her. But that was the least of her discomfort at the moment. All about her, filling what had, at one point, been the old barracks, was the army of junkies and beggars that Edward had brought. Since the newcomers' arrivals, the Blades had been working feverishly to make this place livable. Glancing about her, she shivered again. She dreaded to think what they had been _before_ the restoration. The place was cold, dank and crammed. Felicity tried not to gag as an overpowering aroma of sweat, disease, and Skooma assailed her nostrils.

Those occupants of the barracks conscious and awake glanced up as they entered, blinking wonderingly at them. They were an odd sight, to be sure, here - to say nothing of their attire or ruffled appearance.

"These are your quarters henceforth," the Blade's gruff voice informed them.

"Here?" she heard her mother ask. "But...but the Emperor said..."

"The Emperor changed his mind," the soldier returned. "His orders are for you to remain here."

Felicity was thunderstruck. Was it possible, she wondered? Why would Martin do that? But the soldier's eyes spoke of no lie. "But...but how can we sleep here?" she demanded.

The guard shrugged. "It's the Emperor's orders," he answered. If he disagreed with them, he made no sign of it.


	212. Chapter 212

Tongues lolling to the sides,

Glassy expressions in their eyes,

Never more causing grief

Never more speaking lies.

- _Trophies of the Glorious Dead_, a poem dedicated to Frair Jauffre, author unknown

Chapter Two Hundred and Twelve

The doors opened with a crash as Felicity Smolet stormed into the room. Martin stared in astonishment at her appearance - barefooted, with only a robe thrown over a nightgown, and fire in her eyes.

"Your Majesty!" she greeted, and her tone held all of the respect that her entrance had.

Martin blinked at this unspoken attack, at those words hurled like an insult. "Fe-Felicity," he stammered out. "What...what are you doing here?" He had no idea whatsoever why she was up, much less what she was doing here, now, and angry at him.

"I've come to request permission to leave – for me, and my parents," she declared.

"To leave? What?" Martin asked, his face going blank.

"Your guards seem to think it necessary to keep us here unless you direct otherwise," she answered. "And I am requesting that permission."

He blinked again. "Of course you can leave if you want...but...but why? The Mythic Dawn...it's not safe..."

She glared at him, but had no time to respond as, out of nowhere, a breathless soldier clattered into the room, bowing quickly.

"I'm sorry, your majesty!" he apologized. "I tried to prevent her from getting here, but she got me when I wasn't expecting it..." He rubbed his chin and glared at Felicity.

"Wha...?" Martin asked, utterly bewildered.

At that moment, Jauffre cleared his throat. "Your majesty," he spoke, "I believe, if I understand Sir Nordren correctly, this Smolet girl was not satisfied with your highness's direction regarding her lodgings, and in protest assaulted a Blade before storming in here."

This explanation only confused Martin further. "But...but I thought you said the room was nice, Jauffre?"

"Nice?" Felicity spat out. "Perhaps for the poor souls used to living on the street, a roof over their heads and walls around them – even walls such as those – would be nice. But to put my parents – my mother, with her delicate health – in such a place of disease and filth? In amongst drug addicts and criminals and...and..." Her eyes flashed in fury as words failed her.

Martin was astonished. He turned to Jauffre, hoping that he might help him make some sense of this; but the malevolent smile on the old man's face froze that idea. Suddenly, he began to understand. "You mean...?"

"I believe she means," Jauffre explained, his expression conveying a sense of disapproval matched by his tone, "that she is unsatisfied with the Emperor's dictates."

"You didn't...they're not..." Martin gaped. Somehow, he knew the answer, but he had to ask the question. "You didn't put them in the old barracks?"

"Of course, your majesty," Jauffre nodded. "As you directed."

"Me?" Martin could barely contain his astonishment at this accusation. "I said no such thing!"

Jauffre frowned, as if himself truly bewildered. "But, sir, didn't you direct that I should see that your parents' rooms were made ready?"

"Well, yes, but..."

"And that, sir, is what I did!"

"I never said to throw the Smolets out, though!" Martin contradicted.

Jauffre stared at his sovereign in frank surprise. "You mean, sir, you want to put your parents in with the junkies and criminals?"

Martin glared at the monk. "Of course not! I didn't mean for you to put anyone in there!"

"I see," Jauffre nodded, thoughtfully. "I suppose we could set up some tents in the courtyard for the Smolets..."

"No!"

"Sir?"

"Why are you moving the Smolets at all? I asked you to get rooms for my _parents_, but I said nothing about them!"

"Oh." Jauffre again seemed astonished. "Then...that is...you didn't...couldn't...mean to put your own parents in worse quarters than these Bretons?"

Martin blinked at the question. He hadn't thought of it that way.

"Surely that would be seen...well, as elevating strangers over your majesty's own flesh and blood! Who knows what would be read into it...unless..." Here, the monk lowered his voice to a conspiratorial tone, and glanced significantly at the Emperor's parents as he spoke, "that was your intention, your majesty?"

"No!" Martin protested. "Of course not! I just...didn't think of it like that." He, in turn, glanced at his parents, and then at Felicity, whose eyes – though still expressive of fury – seemed more thoughtful and less angry than before.

"Oh dear," Rusia piped up. "We never meant...we're not the cause of this...this confusion, are we, Martin? I mean, you needn't be particular about where you put us up...any place will do!"

"Certainly," Jauffre agreed, "if the Emperor wishes to elevate strangers above his family, any place will do."


	213. Chapter 213

In darkness he stumbles,

And in light he bumbles

Naught but a punch line in jokes

Amongst normal folks.

- The Song of Edward, verse twelve

Chapter Two Hundred and Thirteen

Martin had just finished a hurried and apologetic explanation to the Smolets, laying all blame for the misunderstanding on himself, and assuring them that it would never happen again.

Mr. Smolet seemed very indignant, but Mrs. Smolet was more understanding. "It was frightening," she admitted, "but I understand...I'm sure Jauffre meant no harm..."

"No," Martin agreed hastily. The monk glared, but said nothing. "And, as to lodgings..."

"Oh, don't worry about that," Mrs. Smolet assured him. "I quite understand that you want the royal suite for your parents. We'd be happy to move elsewhere. Wouldn't we, my sweet?"

Mr. Smolet grunted a stiff acquiescence.

"I wasn't going to...that is..." Martin hastened to explain. The truth of the matter, though, was that he had little of an explanation; he had already promised the suite to the Smolets, and yet it would be seen as a great insult to put his own parents in lesser lodgings.

"Yes?"

"Don't worry about it, Martin," his mother urged. "I told you, Uvren and I can sleep where ever you can find room!"

"Oh no!" Mrs. Smolet insisted. "We would never think to deprive the Emperor's parents of their room."

"Fiddlesticks," Rusia argued. "You're already settled in. It doesn't make sense to throw you out of your room like this. We'll be perfectly happy with any room. Won't we Uvren?" The Dunmer nodded.

"That's too kind of you," Mrs. Smolet countered. "But we're hardly settled at all. I'm sure by now they've cleared out all of our things anyway!"

"But I would never feel right about -"

"Oh, don't worry about that! We wouldn't have it any other way. Would we, dear?" Mr. Smolet again grunted an unconvincing agreement. "See?"

Martin, listening to all of this, was nodding his head. "I think I have a solution."

Jauffre glared into the night. Once more, he was back in bed, and once more he was glaring into the blackness around him. Like before, he was furious at the Emperor's benevolence toward barbarians and other unworthies, like his mother. But, unlike before, he was not in his own bed as he did all of this.

Instead, he was trying to ignore the horrendous inch or so of soft mattress in his new bunk, and the sounds of breathing and light snoring and quiet whispers all about. Gods, this brought back the hell of being a young soldier and having to live in the barracks. He had forgotten just how bad it was. How did men survive this much comfort and human company? How had he survived it all those years ago?

Felicity Smolet stared at the bare white walls all around her, and tried not to notice the rock hard mattress - or whatever it was - underneath her. She was extremely grateful for the flickering torch that kept the room alight, but still, in all of her life, she had never slept in more depressing, uncomfortable quarters. She knew Martin had meant to be nice...and she had forgiven him for the barracks affair once she'd learned he wasn't to blame...but this was excruciating!

Martin tried to ignore the sounds of Jauffre growling on the bunk across from him. He understood that the Soldier was annoyed at having to give up his room, but everyone was making sacrifices now...

He sighed. For all of the monk's displeasure, he still believed it was a good plan. Since the Smolets had been kind enough to give up their own room for his parents, Felicity had gladly relinquished her own for her parents. Jauffre, significantly less gladly, had eventually been convinced to give up his own quarters for her. Oddly enough, for all the monk's protests, it had not been Jauffre, but his fellow soldiers, who had been most heartily opposed to the idea. He understood that they probably resented their commander giving way to a civilian...but he, the Emperor, had set the example, hadn't he? It was hardly a disgrace to the Grandmaster when the Emperor did it as well.

He frowned into the night. It was puzzling. He could still hear the soldiers, and their protests. "Give Miss Felicity Edward's room!" they had suggested. "Or Docada's! But let the Grandmaster keep his!" It had made no sense then, and it made none now...why should you wake a sleeping man to evict him and all his belongs from a room when you had a man awake already - and with no belongings to remove?

Despite his anger, Jauffre felt his lids drooping. He was exhausted, and not even the disgusting comfort of his mattress or the stifling presence of so many other people could dispel his exhaustion. Sleep was calling, and the soldier had not fight enough left to resist. He struggled for a moment, but at last answered that summons.

His breaths slowed until they reached a quiet, steady pace, and his tense muscles relaxed. Even the glaring expression of his face calmed as he slowly slipped into slumber.


	214. Chapter 214

Bold and terrible, the hunt is on

Reaper of souls, the prey is yours

Decider of histories, the choices are thine

And Edward thou art called.

– Praise of Edward, written by Edward

Chapter Two Hundred and Fourteen

Martin had just given himself wholly over to sleep when a blood curdling wail shot through his senses. Bolting upright, reaching instinctively for a sword, he heard commotion all around him. And a pained growl.

"Oh Oblivion!" a voice cursed through the tumult. It was joined by others, and then a torch flickered and caught, casting the room in its light.

"It's starting," Sir Nordred sighed.

Martin glanced about, searching for the source of the noises he'd heard. To his surprise, his companions seemed more annoyed than alarmed. "What's...what's going on?"

"Grandmaster Jauffre, sir," one of the Blades replied. "He's having one of his nightmares again..."

Martin suddenly realized that, of all the faces he saw about him, the monk's had not been one of them. Turning to the other man's bunk, he started at the sight before him.

Friar Jauffre, his lids heavy with sleep, lay contorted on his bed, jerking and writhing and uttering sounds like the ones Martin had heard occasionally. All at once, he seemed to curl up, and draw his knees toward him; sweat glistened on his brow, and sporadic whimpers escaped his lips. Still, though, he remained asleep.

In all his life, Martin had never seen such a sight. Yes, he had seen people lost in nightmares...but this...this was like nothing he'd ever seen before. The fright of a moment, displaced the next with raging fury, and then cringing terror again, that painted itself on the old man's face was so frightening, so bizarre, so positively unnerving that it was hard to watch - and harder yet to draw one's eyes away.

"Shouldn't we...shouldn't we wake him up?" he wondered after a few minutes of watching this horrifying spectacle.

The Blades exchanged glances, and their expressions were astonished and terrified. "No one's tried in years, sir," one ventured.

"Why not?"

"Because...well, the last time someone tried to even go near him...let's just say he had to retire early...injuries sustained in the line of duty."

An eyebrow raising at this tale, Martin stared at the monk. "Well...well, couldn't we make a lot of noise?"

The soldiers shook their head. "When he's like this, sir, nothing wakes him..."

Martin frowned. "How often does this happen?" he wondered. He had traveled to Cloud Ruler Temple with Jauffre, after all, and, with all the camping they had done, he had never seen an instance like this.

"Whenever he's in...well, civilization, sir."

"It's why he has his own room, sir," another explained.

"And why we didn't want him out here."

Martin nodded. He could see why, now. "Well...he must not keep it up. I mean, I've never seen him do it until now."

"No sir. He never does it, except when he's in a fortress or a town or something of that sort. I think it's closed walls or something. It, you know, sets 'im off."

Martin frowned again. "But...but he can't keep it all night, can he?"

The Blades sighed. "Until he wakes up, sir."

"How long is that?"

"All night, generally."

Martin groaned.


	215. Chapter 215

Jesters laugh at the mention of his name,

The reproachful reproach him

Even fools shake their heads in disdain

While the vilest revile him.

- The Song of Edward, verse thirteen

Chapter Two Hundred and Fifteen

Martin's weary eyes glazed over as they stared at the page before him. It was another proposal dealing with Edward's beggars and junkies. He repressed a groan at the sight of it...honestly, he couldn't imagine what Edward had been thinking in bringing these people here. They were a tremendous drain on food supplies, heating resources, building supplies, and just about everything else – to say nothing of everyone's nerves. Instead of building up defenses and investigating the Mythic Dawn, his men were now stuck repairing an old barracks that had been slated for demolition, trying to make livable a ruined old shelter, and trying to keep random skooma-induced fits under control. And the cooks and healers...

Martin shook his head. They were utterly overwrought since the newcomers' arrival; there were far too many to cook for, and even more diseases to combat. On top of that, the beggars seemed terrified to bathe, the skooma addicts were always looking for ways to smuggle in their drug, and the even less savory elements seemed allergic to work; so, for the most part, they all sat about from meal to meal, huddled in the barracks. "_What_," he thought, "_am I going to do with them?_"

"My lord?" a voice called.

Martin looked up. "Yes?"

"Pardon me, my lord," the soldier bowed uncomfortably, "but your mother requests that you...that you join her for tea, sir."

Martin blinked. "Tea?"

"Yes sir."

The Emperor groaned. He was up to his eyeballs in paperwork, and absolutely exhausted after a sleepless night. "Very well," he sighed. "Tell her I'm coming."

The soldier nodded and retreated. Making his way wearily after the other man, Martin continued to ponder the problem at hand. He knew he had to do something, and quick, to make life better for everyone involved...the beggars might not complain – indeed, they lauded the lodgings as some of the best they'd ever known – but he couldn't in good conscience keep them there longer than was absolutely necessary. At the same time, he knew his men's other tasks were crucial to all of their survival.

He was pulled from these thoughts, however, by the sounds of chattering and giggling. His eyes followed the direction of the sound in amazement. It had been a long time since he had heard people in this fortress laughing in such a good natured way; why, they sounded almost happy!

"Martin!" he heard Rusia's voice summoning him. He was called into a hall of war that had, somehow, been converted into a cheerful morning room; his parents and the Smolets were seated therein. "Martin, I'm so glad you've come out here. You've got to try this – Charity has just introduced me to the most delightful thing!"

"Charity?" Martin repeated.

"Yes – you know, Mrs. Smolet.

"Oh," he nodded.

"Here, dear, have a seat," she instructed, rising to pull her son into an empty chair. "Now, here, you see? Charity has tea and biscuits for us." She pulled a teacup and saucer over. "It's a Breton tradition, you know," she continued as she poured steaming water over the leaves. "And do you know what they call it?" She paused to look up at her son. Apparently taking his blank expression as a cue to continue, she answered her own query. "Tea!" She laughed delightedly, removing the leaves and adding a touch of lemon to the murky liquid. Finally, she pushed the saucer and cup toward her son. "Afternoon tea!"

Nodding his thanks, Martin took the cup. He knew very well what tea was, and had heard of afternoon tea, but apparently his mother had not. So, he pretended to be intrigued as he sipped the steaming liquid.

"Isn't it delightful?" his mother demanded of him cheerily.

"Yes, yes, very delightful."

"Well, I told you he'd love it, didn't I Charity?" she continued, speaking now to Mrs. Smolet. "There, now, look at that...I'd say you've converted him already! Here, dear, have a biscuit."

"You look tired, Martin," Felicity noted, taking advantage of the mere moment in which Rusia had paused for breath to speak.

He nodded. "Yes, we didn't get much sleep in the barracks last night...one of the soldiers had a nightmare." Felicity nodded, and Martin noticed the circles under her eyes. "I hope you..."

But here he was interrupted by his mother, who, her breath caught, continued her stream of chatter. "Now, what was it you were telling me, Charity? About the customs of the Bretons, I think it was?"

And, with this, Rusia surrendered conversation to her companion. At first, doubtless because of the Emperor's sudden presence, the Breton spoke hesitatingly; but, as time wore on, and she delved deeper into the topic, she grew more and more animated, and was at length chattering as eagerly as Rusia had been moments before. This, the older men took as their cue to delve into quiet side conversations; and Martin and Felicity did likewise.


	216. Chapter 216

Verily, I say unto you, the unrighteous shall be cast into the kitchens of hell, therein to prepare for the Princes of Darkness foods of most diabolic nature, flame-roasted and seasoned heavily, causing indigestion and even heartburn in delicate systems, and great intestinal rumblings of a gaseous nature akin to many people eating too much bean dip during an Arena game. Amen.

- Mankar Camoran, reading from the Scripture of the Dawn

Chapter Two Hundred and Sixteen

Docada shrieked in delight as Teop. Volkus and Darvyl cheered him on and everyone else clapped and laughed. It had taken several tries, but he had mastered the steps to the High Rock jig Mr. Smolet had shown him.

"Well done, Docada!" Felicity called.

"Oh, very well done, my dear!" Rusia agreed.

Breathless with laughter, Docada returned to the table, beaming as his companions continued to congratulate him. He had only stumbled onto the tea party accidentally, but he was certainly glad that he'd come now!

"Now, any one else going to try?" Ebeneezer Smolet challenged. "How about you, Martin?"

The Emperor laughed and shook his head.

"Why don't you give it a try, Uvren?" Rusia prodded. "You were always so good at dancing." The Dunmer shook his head, abashed, and tried to quietly excuse himself. But his wife was not to be dissuaded. "Come now, dear, why not? You're such a splendid dancer. Isn't he, Martin?"

Martin glanced up from conversation with Felicity at this. "What?"

"Don't you remember?" his mother continued, seeming to take no note of his confusion. "Every Hallows Eve, how we'd all head down to Brianus Usted's place? And how we'd tell stories and sit around the fire and dance? Your father was the best dancer around for miles! All the women wanted him as their partner." She was glowing with pride as she recounted the memory, while her husband's gray color turned a distinct crimson hue. Martin and Felicity laughed, while the poets were too busy celebrating their master to take note.

Mr. Smolet was not, however. "Is that so?" he wondered. "Well then, why don't you get up here and show us what you've got?"

Edward glared before him as he walked, lost in thought. He had no idea what it was that the barbarians were shrieking about, but he could hear their loathsome noise from across the fortress, and he was determined to put an end to it as soon as possible. Stalking into the room from whence it came, he froze all at once, a mortified, disgusted expression still contorting his features.

In front of him were two barbarians, a Breton and a Dunmer, engaged in what could only be some sort of primitive contest of virility or duel for domination over the clan; and, while they danced away, Docada, another barbarian, was cheering them on.

"Watch them amaze, as you gaze

See such skill, if you will

Behold! The talent, that -"

Edward thought it best to interrupt this despicable display as soon as possible.

"What in the name of the Marooned Dragon is this?" he bellowed in what he hoped was an adequate display of his outrage; unfortunately for the image he hoped to convey, his bellow morphed into an undignified sort of squeak just at the end. His purpose – interrupting the dance and song – was, however, realized. All eyes turned to him in shock.

It was then that the Imperial noted his Emperor; but it was too late for turning back now. "People are trying to do things, you know," he fumed. "Some of us have better things to do than listen to shrieking and … and … and whatever that disgusting display _that_ was putting on was." This latter part was directed at Docada.


	217. Chapter 217

Pompous as can be,

Pompous is he

Pompous as can be,

Pompous, yes indeedy!

- Rhyme dedicated to mocking Edward, author unknown

Chapter Two Hundred and Seventeen

Edward's outburst had certainly cast a chill on the festive atmosphere, but, now that he was gone, conversation resumed. The Imperial had been invited to join the group, but had haughtily declined. After being assured that they would try to "keep it down", he'd stormed out. Docada and his friends were busily thinking of rhymes to mock Edward, while everyone else tried to pretend the outburst had never happened.

"You were telling me before," Felicity said to Martin, "about Edward's 'army'?"

The Emperor nodded. "Yes...I don't know what he was thinking...I suppose he must have felt sorry for them, and the terrible way that they lived. Still, I wish he had waited to bring their plight to my attention. It's not exactly as if I can do much now...as it is, we've barely got shelter enough for all of them...and that's not very good."

"No," Felicity agreed, her expression darkening.

Martin hurried on, hoping to avoid the unpleasant remembrance of her time in that shelter altogether. "The Blades are doing what they can, but there isn't much to build with up here, and they can't have too many men diverted from other projects. So far, they haven't complained – the Skingrad folks, I mean. I think they're actually pleased with the shelter, compared to what they had back there. But still..."

Felicity frowned. "Why don't you get them to help? It would get done much quicker if they worked with the Blades, wouldn't it?"

Martin nodded. "Of course. The problem is, they won't do it. There's a few who have volunteered, but they're not very skilled, and it doesn't make sense for the Blades to spend the time supervising so few people...they might as well do the work themselves."

"Why don't the rest help?"

The Emperor shrugged. "A lot of reasons, I gather. Many are too ill...and the healers do what they can, but there are too many and too much illness. And then there are quite a few skooma addicts. And, without skooma up here, they're going through some severe withdrawals."

Felicity nodded. "Can't the healers do something for them, too? I mean, something to hasten their recovery?"

Martin shook his head. "There is no known cure for skooma addiction. All they can do is temporarily relieve the symptoms. And they're working first to cure the diseases."

"That makes sense...but surely there must be some way...I mean, I don't know of one...but there's been so much research into cures for addiction..."

"For skooma addiction, you mean? Not so far as I know – or the healers know."

She nodded slowly, a thoughtful expression on her brow.

After a time, the group dispersed, each heading off to see to their chores. Martin was just bidding his parents a farewell when Rusia interrupted him.

"Martin, before you go..."

"Yes?" She seemed nervous, and that surprised him.

"Could I...that is, could we talk for awhile."

"Of course." He went to return to his seat, but she shook her head.

"No, I mean...privately."

Again, Martin nodded. "Of course. We can go to my office." She murmured her acquiescence, and he led the way. As they walked, neither spoke, and each seemed lost in his or her own thoughts. For his part, Martin suspected – and dreaded – the topic they were bound to discuss. It wasn't that he had no questions – he did. He was just, in a sense, afraid to ask them...and afraid to know the answers.

At last they arrived, and he closed the door behind them, bidding Rusia to take a seat. She did so, and waited until he had followed suit to speak.

"Martin, I know...I know this must have been a shock to you. I mean, finding out about...about your father."

He nodded slightly.

"I know you must have questions, and...and I'll answer them." She paused. "And I...I know how this must have sounded to you...how bad it must have sounded. But it wasn't...it wasn't what you must think."

"I don't think anything, Mom...I just want to know what happened...if you can tell me."

She nodded. "I...I was stupid, Martin. I was very young, and very new to the world. When I met him – Uriel – he was the most charming man I had ever seen. He was thoughtful and kind and sophisticated. And he loved me." She smiled ruefully. "At least, that's what he said; and, at the time, I believed him. Everyone knew he and the Empress hated each other. He told me how he had lived a loveless life, and how royal law forbade him divorcing her. And when he said that he loved me, and that I was cruel to condemn him to loneliness because of a mistake he'd made in his youth...I thought he meant it."

Martin nodded, but said nothing.

"He didn't," she said simply. "But by the time I realized that, I was already pregnant."

"With me."

"Yes. With you. When he found out, he said he'd find a husband for me...he picked out an old widower, who would pretend the child was his in order to secure a military promotion for his own son. I was supposed to be grateful, you see, because my family was poor, and he was rich and of a better family than mine." She frowned in a memory that was clearly painful. "I didn't do it," she continued. "I couldn't...so he was furious – your father, I mean, Uriel. He told me then that I could take up his offer or deal with the consequences of my disgrace alone." She paused for a moment before going on. "So I left...I went back to my father's estate. That is where your father – Uvren, I mean – worked. He was a farmhand there."

"Eventually, my...condition became obvious. My father was ashamed, and angry that I had rejected Uriel's arranged marriage...so he arranged for me to go to a convent."

Martin felt a lump in his throat as he saw the tears forming in her eyes; but he said nothing so that she could continue.

"When Uvren heard of his plan, he...he slipped into the house one evening – farmhands weren't allowed in the manor, you know – and found me. He...he asked me to marry him. He told me..." She smiled, a bittersweet smile. "He told me that he had always loved me, but that he had never dared to say anything because I was his lord's daughter; and that he knew about...about you, and Uriel, and what had happened...but that couldn't stand the thought of me disgraced. That he couldn't offer me much, but that he would raise you as his own son, and save me from the convent."

Martin fought his own tears. "And you accepted?"

She shook her head. "No...I...I couldn't do that. It was...such a selfless offer...but I couldn't...I couldn't let him do that. I hardly knew him. I didn't love him." She shook her head again. "I couldn't do that. So I went – to the convent where my father sent me, I mean."

"You went?" he asked in surprise. This was a revelation that he did not expect, and that seemed at odds with the outcome that he knew had happened.

"But Uvren followed. He said he wouldn't let me throw my life away, or let them take you away from me. He got a job with one of the farmers in the town near the convent; and every day, he would visit – as my brother – and try to convince me to leave with him before you were born, and before they made me take the vows." She paused, explaining, "A woman in...in my state was impure, and not able to commit to the life of the nuns at that point."

Martin nodded, but was too choked with emotion to speak.

"And...and finally, I said yes. We stole away in the middle of the night, and disappeared into the wild." She blinked back tears, and gazed into her son's eyes. "I know what you must think...but I went with Uvren because I loved him, and I knew that he meant it when he said he loved me, and that he'd love you too."

Shaking head, Martin knew better than to try to say something; so, instead of assuring her that he believed her, he just wrapped her in a hug.

For a few moments, they sat like that, each silently sobbing into the other's shoulder; and then she sat back, and again looked into her son's eyes.

"And then, one day, Jauffre showed up at our doorstep. He had instructions from the Emperor. I don't know how they found us, but they did. The Emperor was worried about having a son, a potential heir to the throne, growing up as a farmer; so we had to send you away, to get a proper education should you ever have to lead the empire." Pain crossed her face again. "So we told you what we thought was the best thing to say...that we were sending you away to better yourself. We never thought you would end up Emperor...there were three princes, and Uriel Septim, before you."

He nodded.

"I wish now we had said something...then it would not have come as such a shock..."

Martin smiled. "It turned out well, mother. I don't know that I would have wanted to know before I needed to, anyway."

She smiled now too. "Then you do forgive me, Martin? For everything? And Uvren too – for everything he did was to help you and me."

Martin hugged her again. "I have nothing to forgive, mother. I could not asked for better parents. I'm only sorry that my birth caused you so much grief – you and father. Uvren, I mean."

She pulled back and shook her head vehemently. "No, Martin, you were the one good thing – the only good thing – that happened in my life. Prior to meeting Uvren, I mean. And I would not have found him if not for you, anyway."


End file.
